The words prickle my skin, nervous energy, what I need to say here is not easy … is not without risk, so please reading eyes, and listening hearts just stay a moment while I try to explain.
I am not at ease with the idea that I should write. The very word … writing … is somewhat of a torment for me. It may be buckets full of self-doubt talking but more so, I don’t actually know what the word means to me. I don’t need a definition of the word. I literally know what it means — but I don’t know its shape, its colour, or size. I feel I just told the world that I am going to climb Everest — without any knowledge of what that entails. I have no packs, no tent, no equipment … I am sitting on my couch, legs crossed in shorts, sipping coffee.
I know the notion follows me around, follows me into book shops where I buy books about it, it chases me around the blog, I can’t seem to shake it. But I am still completely confused about what it means.
And I know that my lovely, well meaning, loving sphere is cheering me on – “knows” on my behalf that I should be “writing.”
And yet, the cheers resound like taunts (edit: taunt is a strong word, too strong in this context, I apologize if the word hurt any of my lovely cheerleaders, you are dear to me, I am sorry) and not because they are ill intended, quite the opposite, this I do know with certainty. But my skin prickles that anyone should or could know what writing means for me when I am still standing here at the bottom of the driveway on my way to climb a mountain I have never seen.
So my words, “I want to try this writing thing out” mean I need to explore, I need to fail, I need to define it for myself, and ultimately I need to learn what shape it will take in this life of mine. I may learn that I am better suited to local hills and valleys than mountains which launch themselves into the sky like giants.
I need that to be okay with your reading eyes and listening hearts.