I keep wanting to write. And I keep stopping myself. Because I’m afraid of sharing something too personal. Because I can’t put all my thoughts together and make them sound beautiful and breezy like what I read in books. Or other blog posts. I can’t make myself sound eloquent. I can’t put life into something I think is rather drab. I can’t expand my vocabulary and make it efficient enough to express what’s inside me properly.
So I don’t write. I let my tiny ideas rest somewhere after floating around behind my eyes. And I call them tiny because they’re almost always just one or two sentences, that when I try to expand into a full article, even a short one, almost always never make it. I abort these tiny babies and never let them see the light of day because I’m not capable of making them grow into something beautiful. Something good enough to read for pleasure.
I sing. I dance. I read – what I can. And I hope that these other activities can do for me what writing does. Take something away. Some of the bad. Some of the thing that makes me feel awful and heavy. Of course they don’t work, but writing doesn’t either so what the hell am I supposed to do? Fine. Don’t write blog posts for a while. Just free write. Use your journal to write whatever you want. At least then you don’t have to worry about presentation or sounding sensible or humourous, but you still get something out of you. It’s like puking. How can you make vomit look beautiful? You just have to do it.