Sometimes, I feel this intense need to write. Just to put things down, get them out of the place in my soul in which they are imprisoned.
I should note here that I have never really been one to keep a diary or a journal. I think something in me has a deeply rooted fear that someone will discover it and that what I have poured out on paper will be deemed worthless or foolish. This probably comes from being one of the youngest members of a highly creative family. I have several relatives who have made their living studying, making, and/or teaching some form of art of music, and nearly everyone else has talent in visual, musical, or literary arts.
So for a long time, I have kept the words inside me under lock and key. They swirled around in my head and my heart, but I refused to let any of them see the light of day. I bound them with the chains of “what if”: What if it’s not good enough? What if no one likes it? What if people mock me? I tried to convince myself that the reason I didn’t take the time to write was because I didn’t have the time. I was busy with work or school or my children or my volunteer work. I talked myself into believing that a blog post once a month (or less) and a quarterly article for my church’s newsletter constituted plenty of writing.
Recently, though, the drive became almost unbearable. It was like buying a strawberry glazed, chocolate drizzle cheesecake, then doing no more than smelling it before putting it in the refrigerator. You know it’s there; it seductively whispers your name, begging you to come and taste the first bite. You resist, believing that you must at all costs resist the temptation. Eventually, it wears you down. You absolutely must have a slice. And then, afterward, even though it tastes wonderful, you feel just a bit guilty for enjoying the pleasure it has brought.
When I started blogging with more regularity, I felt guilty. I know, I know, that’s an odd reaction. I felt guilty taking time away from my family, the dishes stacked in the sink, and my commitments to church and community. I seemed selfish, somehow. I also felt so naked and exposed, putting all my thoughts out there on the web for anyone to read. (Hmm, maybe I should have compared writing to sex, instead.) It was intensely frightening.
The good news is, writing is a lot less fattening than cheesecake, and there is a certain release in breaking ourselves open that way. The bad news is, it has led not to satiation, but to a deepening desire to free the tangle of words and ideas pent up in my soul. It’s a constant craving. It’s intense, powerful, and even exhilarating. And it’s absolutely terrifying. But I’m ready to step over the edge.
Bring it on.
