I have dreamed of being a writer for as long as I can remember. My 3rd Grade teacher, Mr Freeman, encouraged lots of writing and I found I had a knack for it. I loved it! Now my early stuff was pretty out there. I found a one that I wrote, a very sappy romance story, involving a bunch of my school friends. It was like reading a terrible soap opera. That bad. I have file folders full of stories finished and some not quite so much that range all the way to grade school. I save them for sentimental reasons, not that most are that great, but every writer starts somewhere, right?
I won a number of story contests as the years went by, something for which I was very proud of. In fact I received the first Ruby Freeman Award for Reading, Writing and Preservation of Literature (which was given by my beloved 3rd Grade Teacher in honor of his Mother), an award that there were two types of and only given for a few years. Unfortunately, they stopped because Mr Freeman felt that the award was not appreciated for what it was. Which was truly a tragedy. I will always feel honored that I received the first. There was a contest that touched on all the arts known as the Reflections contest and I won that a couple times. The one year, I believe I was in 7th grade and I made it as far as Regionals. It was quite the honor.
As wonderful as all these awards were, it was the writing I loved. I wanted to write a novel and hoped that I would be inspired to write one. Hasn't happened yet, but I still hope to. As I have now been out of school for 10 years, I don't write nearly as much as I used to. I still write here and there. I've actively participated in three years worth of Nanowrimo, but haven't yet met the goal number of 50,000 words. My plan is to make the goal next year. Its kind of a fun challenge. Last year I made it to about 25,000 words. I was so close it was exhilerating.
I started blogging about 3 years ago. Not only did I feel it was a great way to remember things like a journal, but I had this fantasy that my blog would be discovered and that readers would flock to read what I had to say. That I would be found to be funny, entertaining and inspiring. I still enjoy to blog, but I've found that I fill those shoes very little. Perhaps I should compare my writing style less to other blogs I read, but its human nature to do so. I find I'm not as funny and clever as I thought. I have very few consistent readers. Hardly anyone comments. I guess I really should be glad I have found a way around my writers block. Its hard since I went into this with such high expectations and dreams. I wanted someone to tell me that I should write a book. I wanted a stranger to tell me that. Silly, huh?
I know I shouldn't set such stock in being disappointed. I should write because I love to and I want to remember the memories of my kids growing up. I want my family who doesn't live close to hear the funny stories. I want a place I can vent and not be afraid of judgment. I shouldn't care if I have 2 readers or 200 readers. I should write to write. But that writer in me wants to be awknowledged. To be rooted on and in my writer's vanity, be told I'm amazing and entertaining. As a writer I am so freakin' vain.
I want my dream. Is it so silly that a 27 year old wants her dream? I know all of this really goes back to a few things that are not writing related. They are about me, about the me I keep hidden. In check. I have written for so long as a means to hide the fact that I don't have very many friends and don't seem to be able to make friends easily. I don't want people to know that I'm scared to talk to new people. I literally have a phobia of calling people, it doesn't matter if I know them or not. I will drag out calling someone, in order to avoid it. I've been told that I'm not well liked, for whatever reason I scare people away. Perhaps I try too hard. I've used writing as a means to hide the real me and keep the pain at bay that don't socialize.
I've used my healthy issues to hide away, all but becoming a recluse. I yearn to have friends to do things with, to have excuses to leave my house. But I don't. I hide in my house. I am the epitomy of a recluse. I write and hide. In fact just this morning I wrote a letter on Facebook to a bunch of the women who are my friends online, hoping to start a monthly craft day in the New Year. To force myself out of my house, my comfort zone and make friends. Get to know these people I claim to be friends with. I'm certain most will find reasons it won't work. I kind of feel sad and pathetic. I had to write a letter to ask people to let me get to know them. Writing this makes me want to cry. I hate my limitations.
So I write. I escape. I pretend. I evade. I write to the universe, because I don't even dare hope that someone will actually read this. I still dream big. I dream I'll be inspired and write a book that will truly wow the world. I want to be that writer. I want to touch people's lives. Share a piece of me. Be remembered rather then fade away. I will fade because I feel alone. Because I am alone.
I'll keep writing my blog. I'll tell about the crazy things my kids have done. I'll write whatever comes to mind. I'll keep dreaming that I will be a writer. A writer that people want to read. I hope you don't think too badly of me for saying I'm weak. I'm a writer and I dream big.
Squeakity Squeakers Squeak
1 day ago