2011

I came across something the other day that threw me for a bit of a loop. While packing up my house in Fayetteville and moving my things there into storage (DC rooms don't allow for much excess), I stumbled upon a file folder of quizzes, stories, poems, and artwork from K-6th grade. One prompt in bold block letters begged the question - "When I grow up I want to be...." Underneath this half statement was once a page full of blank white paper now yellow with time. When did I grow up enough for my papers to oxidize? In shaky cursive, I began to state my case. "When I grow up, I want to be a writer. Writing makes me happy, and I want to spend my life making everyone smile just like I do." However simplistic, this threw me for quite a loop. When recounting my childhood, I cannot remember my career aspirations before politics. I heard that I had real interest in becoming a flower, but that didn't come to fruition. I have always known that I enjoy writing, but with that comes this feeling of dread. What if people don't like what I write? What if I cannot come up with something to say? Does enjoying writing mean that I should write a novel, and if so, how in the world do you begin to develop a story line and characters? I imagine that every author grapples with these questions at some point in his or her budding career, but at which point is it okay to stop asking these questions and just start writing? Aside from a blog post here or there, I've not actually sat down to write in longer than I can remember. I told myself that I would write in Honduras, and then after the election - but I didn't make time to. I never want to see writing as a chore, but as an outlet. So until some divine inspiration falls down onto me, I guess that I will still be wordless. Maybe I need to shut down my brain for a spell and learn to just be still...maybe in that stillness the words will come.