I often think about what it would be like to be a writer. You know, one of those people who makes money from writing and sits in cafes to pen novel chapters, create characters and form ideas for articles and the like. I know that I am a writer in a way as I work in policy and research and spend most of my working time forming ideas about education and its impact on community groups for publication under the guise of my organisation. I still lay claim to these publications on LinkIn mind you, I mean that work is gold and I did write it so want others to know about it. But yeah, that freedom of writing for me, that is what I would like. I enjoy blogging but find it difficult to keep motivated when I am not hypomanic. I am sporadic and will go months without writing (as you have probably noticed).
The funny thing though is that I still write in my head.
Such as when I am taking my daily walk and I have brilliant ideas about blog pieces or articles for online magazines but by the time I get the inkling to sit down and write, the ideas have faded into the abyss of everyday memory loss and thoughts and I no longer have the topic. I really should start carrying around a note pad or my phone so that I can record my ideas for later synthesis but truthfully I just haven’t reached that level of commitment even after more than five years of blogging. I could also make a time each day to blog or write, I mean I have a novella half completed and diaries of other stories waiting to be told. Truthfully when I look back on my 20s all I see are stories waiting to be formed and shared either in novella or a published blog. I have this idea of writing blogs like books, by having a theme for a blog and writing to that history until the story is told, then archiving it and promoting it as a blog/book format.
Although I have the want to make money from writing I don’t have the commitment or the ego that warrants that commitment. I don’t believe that my word craft is up to par to compete with the committed word warriors who are out there, and who have been out there for months, years or decades longer than I trudging away in the trenches experiencing rejection and living in borderline poverty while trying to get that one piece of gold that might make you get noticed and break into the profession.
But I guess you have to be in it to win it.
When I was younger, like much younger around 8 years old, I used to write down my dreams and nightmares into journals. I still have these journals and they are pretty scary stuff for an eight year old. I can recall that I wanted to be a writer event at this time. I didn’t foresee that I would be the report writer that I am, but rather a creative writer who would open up worlds for other people and delve into the bigger ideas of life around love, death and being. I find it hard to tap into my creative ‘make believe’ side of my writing and instead prefer to write about experiences. I like to get lost in the experience of what was and stretch my memory to recall the minute details of the incident that led me to write about it in a journal.
I am such a lazy write now that I don’t even keep a journal. I rely on this blog as my journal now but writing it is an internal competition, a pull between writing the truth and knowing my audience. It is not hidden and personal so that I can express all of my deepest experiences. Every now and then I get stuck in a moment that warrants in-depth writing such as a few months ago (my last hiatus from writing in this blog) when I was stuck on an experience that was haunting my thoughts and I just had to write it down but could not publish it. The fact that I could not publish it stopped me from writing for a time as it was the only piece that mattered at that time.
Does that make sense?
The pain of the experience was so raw that I could not move past it to write about the now. And I felt that I was hiding from my audience by not sharing the experience so felt fraud in writing anything else on the blog. And the theme of the experience did not match the blog in a way, so I questioned what to do with the piece. It still hides on my computer – I know that it is there, festering and holding some kind of power. It is a negative experience and something not many people know about me. There is an element of shame. It is a difficult topic.
Besides moments such as this pertinent all-encompassing experience I find writing therapeutic. But difficult to maintain. I do not handle rejection well, especially from other bloggers. I do not like writing to a topic and know that I need to practice this element in order to progress. And I find it hard to just start sometimes for fear that no words will come – what will this mean about me? Perhaps going back to the start is a good beginning. I could return to using this blog as a journal by writing regularly, even once a week, and perhaps seeking out opportunities to practice writing to a topic as such for guest blogs.