I just simply cannot focus, or feel relaxed with STUFF EVERYWHERE. I've always been wired like that. In college, whenever I had a big test to study for, you'd know because I'd have to clean my room so I could study well. Something about a tidy space helps me focus. Except not right now.
Every time when I go to pick up the remnants of breakfast and lunch, put the coffee pot away, go lose another finger while spray painting yet another thing in the frigid cold, all I can think of are words. Words, words, words that I need to write. That I don't know how to write. That I've been thinking about, pondering, for the last month. With no real clarity which is why it's been pretty silent here. Lifeless.
You see, I'm starting to finally realize that I am, in fact, a writer. I don't care if that's a term linked to having fancy books in print, or taking book tours, signing autographs, or whatever. That's not what I mean for me. But I am a writer. And hell, I'll even say that with confidence. It's an outlet for me to share, express, talk, just get out of my head for a hot second and let it out. And after spending the last 4 days redo'ing everything in my house, spraying painting more random shelves than I can count, re-arranging more furniture, crafting yet another bunting for the love, I am realizing that since I've shut down this outlet, it's leaking. It's leaking out in the form of antique-white-spray-painted crap all over my house. In crafts. In whatever. Because I haven't been using it in the way I used to when I would write.
See, honestly? When people have asked why I've stopped writing, when I'll come back, what triggered this pause, which, let's be honest--hasn't ever happened here in years-- I just didn't have an answer. Sure, I can give a few little odds & ends here and there--but dude, I'm so contemplative. About it all. I wish I still had that feeling of writing without being inhibited, but I don't. I really don't. And I hate that so much.
I'm a human and I'm struggling with being judged. With my children being judged. With what I put out there, why I'm putting it out there, that I kind of just want to be a lone blogger again--with no scrutiny. No mean texts swarming around about you. No hidden sarcasm and pokes and prods at your character and who you are. But I know that doesn't exist. We live in a world where everyone has an opinion. And their opinion may be that they just don't like me. I want to stomp my feet and whine and cry to my mom because I don't know why anyone would dislike me and wahhhhh. But I know that people just don't always mesh. And that's okay. You don't have to mesh with me, or like what I write about. Seriously, free yourself. Stop reading. I've done that with many (most) blogs this month and it has been absolutely liberating. I don't say that to be mean, but I've had to take a cold, hard look at where I spend my time. Who I invest in. Who and what I want to read. And so I've done that and seriously--don't waste your time with people who bring you down or make you roll your eyes.
Life is too short for that.
And so here I am. Still not really sure what I'm doing. If I'm doing. When I'm doing. How much I'll be doing.
I'm wrestling with many different ideas of what I want to do. How much I want my babies out there. How I accurately portray that this isn't a job for me, it's not a means for money, I could care less about popularity or getting myself out there, seriously. It's simply something I just like to do. Rather, I used to love it. Write. I so desperately want to come off as genuine, because I am, and I can say that with utmost confidence. But I'm still struggling with what to do. Or where to go.
I still can't even fully put into words everything I'm really wanting to say. But basically. I'm contemplating, and I'm here, kind of.
Thank you to those of you who have emailed me this last month, I'm not gonna lie and say I had hundreds of emails or something, people begging me to come back, I didn't. The few that came meant a ton to me. So thank you.
*totally on purpose