Lately, I've been writing, writing, writing. I would like to write a book, but all the demons of self doubt seep in. How on earth could I write a book? Me?! That's a lot of words. A lot of story to come up with.
There are so many other people who could write better. People who would actually have something to say that people would want to read. The merry-go-round of self hate (or self truth) goes on and on.
I'm a Pollyanna. I always think that things will turn out right. Will work out for the best. Work out the way they're meant to be. Trying to look on the bright side.
But what if they don't work out and the reason that they don't work out is simply because I don't try. If I just accept "Oh well, it wasn't meant to be then." I'm now beginning to see that's an easy way not to try or to give up.
So I'm writing, writing, writing. Filling the screen with words, that may or may not be put together in the right way. That may not be something that anyone would want to read. It might be crap. I might be wrong. But at least I tried. At least the words will be out there. And maybe, just maybe, someone will want to read it. Just maybe it will resonate with someone. Make someone think. Or cry. Or laugh. Or just enjoy the words washing over them. Or simply have a distraction for an hour or two from the boring moments of life. Maybe only my kids and my husband and my parents will read it and tell me it's great before putting in on their bedside table to gather dust.
Facebook and Instagram and the rest of the social media world are awash with memes and quotes telling us to live in the moment, be grateful for the small things, live life fully. We don't even have to think too hard about it, as there will be an emoticon to fit the bill. I have moments when I'm all for being grateful and being inspired, but sometimes the small stuff is scraping Weet-Bix off the floor, time and again. It's repeating "Stop it, no, stop it, stop it, be nice, no" over again. Sometimes being a middle-aged mother is as boringly mundane as it sounds. Middle-aged mother. How on earth is that me? And, yet it is. And there is no amount of money you could pay me to again be 30 or 20.
Thinking that I knew it all, when in fact I knew nothing. Yet, when I answer how was my day, I almost bore myself. So what can I say that anyone would want to read? I'm not sure.
So in spite of that, perhaps it's time to be brave and write, knowing full well, it could amount to nothing. To try or die. To write something more meaningful than a quote in metallic print in a Kmart frame or in a cursive font on a Facebook meme. Not aiming too high, but you just never know.