Sunday, March 11, 2012

My spelling might suck. My grammar might be imperfect. But I love to write.

These three facts have lived in constant conflict with one another. But after 25 years of me denying my voice a...., well voice, I have felt compelled to write. For months the idea has weighed on my  mind, and pressed in my heart. But the continual fear of persecution and rejection that has colored my life the sickly-green-gray it feels right now, has stopped me.

When I write, i keep it to myself.
 And I write by hand with pencil on art paper, or composition book, or little yellow legal pad.
When i write by hand i don't see that horrible red squiggly line reminding me of my faults. The work flows from my mind and onto paper with the urgency of a crumbling damn. I write these observations, these notes and stories, that when i stumble back upon them during the occasional cleaning rant, it astonishes me i was the one who weaved the words.

I will tell you my stories if i don't know you.
If I know you, in a moment of bravery, i might mutter a mention of them. But unless you are a total stranger, I don't show who i want to be. How could i? You have already known me, your mind is made up. With someone new, I can be too.

So that is what this Blog is for, and if i ever get courageous enough to publish, too. To write and let someone read my writing.

and that is exactly what i intend to do.

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