Now, I feel like crap
Tags: Writers Block, Writing

I want to be a writer. I’ve always dreamed of writing a book. Something people want to read, talk about. That’s the extent of my ambitions. Write a book.

I’ve always liked to write. Enjoyed putting my thoughts and feeling into words, and the internet creates a medium that doesn’t require knowing how to spell the words I know how to use but not how to spell. That’s one big plus.

The weightlessness of throwing one’s thoughts into the void is liberating. The void is silent. It has no eyes, no ears, no criticism to give, no feelings to hurt.

I like to ponder, ruminate (see — words I’m not sure how to spell?), and I love to read. In high school, the only time my name got read (abeit mis-pronounced) on the PA was when I won the reader award. Cluelessly, I selected my prize from the librarian, highlighters not colored post-its, and asked aloud why my name was called. I’d checked out the most books that year. That happened twice more. I still butt up again the library’s 100 book limit, curse their teeth.

I had an idea for a novel in 2008 while monitoring the standardized tests that all teachers have to administer — a time where nothing but watchfulness is aloud. I’d play memorize all the kids names and watch their surprise as I brought them a tissue and called them by name, or judge who had the best hair, cutest shoes. But then I had a idea for a story, a girl in an impossible situation who had to make a choice. The idea lingered, grew.

When I quit teaching, I thought, now, now I’ll do it. I’ll accomplish my dream. I drank coffee-shop french press and maniacally produced 70k words without any feeling or conclusion. I went through a writing program, submitting and graduating to each level with a manuscript that wrote and rewrote, knowing it wasn’t yet the story I needed. I went to New York and listened as agents and editors ten years my junior dismissed my dream.

Market saturated. Not selling. Not special enough.

Side note: F*** them.

Onward.

For the last year and a half, I tried to push the rope of motivation. But my determination, like my budding talent, was bludgeoned. I found other things I could control and got good at those things. Bad a** things. I ran the Boston Marathon and re-qualified. I competed in Nationals for USA Triathlon and got a spot in Worlds.

But I can’t make myself write.

I used to blog though. My husband recently mentioned how helpful my writing-into-the-void was for him while we were dating. As in, why won’t this girl kiss me? Very helpful.

So I wrote a blog post about parenting and sent it to him. Then I had to apologize 15 times. He felt criticized, undermined. He’s stressed at work, and I’m sitting at home telling him what he was doing wrong. Not my intention.

Now, I feel like crap. I’m discouraged. I feel worthless and insensitive, and I can’t even call him to vent. That would be selfish, so now I can’t even express my hurt. As a 2 on the Enneagram, I’ve been working really hard lately on not repressing my feelings. From 2nd through 5th grade, kids taunted me for being a crybaby, so I shut my feelings down. No one wanted to see that. My feelings aren’t safe. But I still feel. And sometimes feelings are hurtful.

I wrote into the void, risked sharing my thoughts, and the void snapped back. It’s not silent when you share, and I deleted my post.

Again, I am voiceless and inconsequential. It’s smothers me. I have thoughts. I have feelings. Some are interesting, I believe. Important. Putting those thoughts into words is terrifying.

But I have to. I must. I will. I’m going to write, even if it’s into the void, and f*** the consequences.