I chastise my actions and inactions. I question my goals and motives. I wonder if the pull — the desire — to write is important enough to give up all other responsibilities. This is a drive so powerful and strong that I often don’t follow through because I’m afraid of the words and what will happen if they flow out of me… or if they don’t.
Just days ago, as Thanksgiving gatherings planted deposits in my waning memory and leftovers emptied from plastic containers, I stumbled on advice — affirmations — to myself from Morning Pages (a ritual courtesy of Julia Cameron) written in January:
I am a writer.
I wrote a novel in a month. I can do it again. All my writing goals are possible, because I wrote a book in a month. I can write.
My words can move people.
I can make a difference through my writing.
God has given me the gift of writing. What I write is my gift back to him. Not writing is in direct conflict with God’s plan for me. I can motivate people.
New York calls to me, and that’s okay.
I am an artist. And that’s okay, too.
I am a writer, so I need to act like a writer. I must observe, mentally record and write about it all.
Not only must I educate others, I must educate myself and spend time working on my craft at all times, and that means reading and studying about writing in my free time.
I am a writer.
I must remember that.
Just reading these words empower me. Humble me. Embarrass me. But, mostly, they inspire me. At some point, I saw these words in myself, but along the way, I forgot. I let life get in the way. I let doubt rule me. I let failures define me.
How many other writers, artists and dreamers feel this same way?
How many other women, mothers, wives — people — struggle with a dream that consumes them?
In future posts, I’m going to step out of my comfort zone and expose all the trials and tribulations that come with being a bohemian wannabe… a dreamer… even though conforming to the world’s and society’s expectations would be easier and less heartbreaking.
I expose my journey for you.
And for me.