This is the season I find myself encouraged by the dark and cold to spend more time inside. My most loved indoor activity is writing. I’ve worked tirelessly on several different pieces this season, only to store them away in my drive for no one else to see. I wanted to share them but the desire has always been outweighed by the following recurring, insecurity-based train of thoughts: first, I should become a better writer; then I will share; I should find a focus, no one is going to read my writing if it is just about me; I like reviewing my tools from the experience of a woman… maybe I’ll blog about tools. No wait, fuck that.
A single pebble tips the scales once again. I shared a genuine part of myself recently, with people I call friends, but who barely know me. To describe the post-share sensation as something that “felt good” would be an understatement (or at least proof that I, indeed, did not become a better writer before starting this blog). I discovered that once I shared some of my deepest feelings, they were able to evolve. My mind felt invigorated to expand and grow, like a perfectly pruned fruit tree.
I find clarity on a topic to always be hidden in the creases of it. So, the longer you take to unfold it and shake it out, the more obscure it seems to become. Sharing through expressive writing is how I unfold my most intense thoughts. It isn’t just pulling them out of the drawer and shaking them hard, so when put down later, they find those same folds and become blurry all over again. Sharing my writing feels like I am bringing those thoughts outside on a warm summer day with the perfect breeze. I am hanging them out on the clothesline, to become completely fresh feelings.
I am sure that this has been enough explanation for why someone with as many responsibilities as myself would take time to start a blog, but one last comment must be made to introduce it:
Thank you for reading. You are the perfect breeze for my musky, wrinkled thoughts.