As I sit here wrapped up in my cozy felt blanket on my cozy blue couch, a tremendous storm is taking place outside. A dense fog obscures the mountains, and I am unable to catch a glimpse of the usually stunning volcano just across the valley. A bolt of lightning crashes nearby, probably closer than I'd like to know. A huge thunderclap shakes the house like a small earthquake. The rain pours down in sheets.
I do not know what to write. Sometimes this happens to me, when I least expect it. It's a common occurence among us writers. We find ourselves stumbling against a roadblock, unsure of how to bypass it, and not knowing in the first place just what lay ahead. It's funny, because people think that writers simply always know what to write, as if we could just pull words out of our rear ends and end up with a literary masterpiece. "Every writer I know has trouble writing," according to Joseph Heller. These words could not be more true.
However, I find that with this blog I can unmask myself, yell back at the thunder telling me to stay indoors. With my words and my mind, I can go anywhere, create anything. There could not be anything more beautiful or exciting than that. I don't fear writing here, and I don't fear criticism. What I fear is that one day, I will sit down, and nothing will come out. Not even "I don't know what to write." The fear that one day my thoughts and ability to portray them will shrivel up like a burnt leaf terrifies me; for without these, I am nothing. I would have no outlet, no true communication in this world.
I first knew I was a writer for life when I first held a pen in my hand, first heard a story at bedtime (and could understand it), when I learned to read. I knew it when I found myself having internal dialogues; only they weren't normal internal dialogues, like offering myself encouragement or pushing myself to the brink. I described things. I would see a bookshelf and think, "The tall dark bookshelf was filled to its edges with books of all shapes, sizes, colors and subjects." When I looked across the marsh in Georgia and painted a picture of it with words.
I don't plan on being a full-time novelist or anything like that. Too unsteady, not enough security for me. I need comfort, a zone in which I feel safe. And unfortunately, I feel that my writing wouldn't bring me the income that J.K. Rowling has gotten from Harry Potter. (Unfortunately I am not original or creative enough to come up with any stories like that...) So looks like I am having to find something else that peaks my interest as much as writing, and which I might actually be able to make a living out of.
International business? Foreign relations? Foreign languages?
We shall see.
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