“You could never publish my love”

Today’s entry is about inspiration or lack there of as it seems. I promised someone that I’d update every Monday/Wednesday/Friday and I dropped the ball this week and only updated Monday.

Once upon a time I actually called myself a writer, back when I actually wrote. Here’s photographic proof:



It seems like a lifetime ago. I don’t know how I had so much to say back then and why I don’t seem to have anything to say now. I’ve often just chalked up to my assimilation into a boring life. To maturity. But the other day she told me something that makes a lot more sense.

“Your writing has changed, you’re afraid now.”

She’s right. I am and I said I would try not to be when I started this blog, but here I am still finding it impossible. Everything I’ve written that I’ve been proud of has been of thoughts/feeling that are incredibly close to my heart and inevitably hurtful to others. Which of course is not my intention. I’m not a malicious person. Though I'm sure malicious people don't exactly walk around introducing themselves as such either, so you're just going to have to believe me with that one.

I am however very very careful with my own emotions. Feelings are fleeting and irrelevant to solving issues. That doesn’t mean I don’t have them, I’m just less inclined to project them on other people. On more then 4 occasions I’ve had different men in my life say “I didn’t know you got like this?” when I’ve burst into tears over whatever in the middle of a winter night reflecting on my life. People don’t except outward emotions from me. They except condescending humor or shyness or facial expressions that tell the exact opposite of what I’m feeling or polite smiles.

Thus putting my actual feelings into words on a blogpage is too real, too permanent, too hurtful.

People only want to read about how amazing they are, how they‘re affecting other people. Nobody wants to read about their flaws, but you find some in the details.

Unfortunately that’s what I see. The details.

I want to write about my marriage but will he or you read it and think I’m going to leave him. That somehow the truth will make me love him less?

I want to write about my family but will it crack our relationships?

I don’t even know why I care so much. Why I'm over thinking this whole thing. Why can’t I just create a tumbler or have a blog with inspirational quotes? I want to get better and promot my admiration for the people in my life but I also don’t want to be afraid of pointing out how they make me feel at times.

People keep telling me to write a book and I always ask “about what?” because what makes me so special? What makes my life book worthy?

Answer: Everyone else in my life. They make me better and I hope if they ever read anything that might make them doubt it, they’ll remember that.