I have wanted to be a writer since I was 10. That shiny pink diary with the little padlock and teeny key my aunt gave me held my first romps with the creative written word. How I treasured those entries – the weather, the perceived injustices from my parents, my sisters, my so-called friends, what we ate for dinner, and boys, boys, boys! Back then, books were brought to our little farm biweekly on the Bookmobile. I would sign books out 14-20 at a time and devour them – the Little House on the Prairie Series, everything by Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume, and I still read voraciously today.
So if writing is what matters most to me, then why haven’t I written in nearly two months? Whatever happened to: if you build it (my blog), they (ingeniously witty, thought-provoking posts) will come? I feel that my desire to extract and expose the random thoughts that flit in and out of my head has been shut down by paralytic fear. Fear of being judged for writing something stupid, fear of nasty but well-written comments by smart people, but most of all, fear of discovering that after all these years of dreaming about it, I really suck as a writer.
But today I said fuck it. I downed a writer’s viagra (double vodka soda) and shared myself. Smart ass comments be damned, here I come!