A blog of one's own

Sometimes it gets annoying to have the "writer button" turned on in my brain.  Especially if there is no time to get the stuff that begins to overload my circuits down on paper.  I keep thinking it would be cool to have one of those little dictation devices so I could whip it out while driving and record my thoughts.  But then there is the question , "how valuable are these passing notions and reflections?" -my strong inner-critic asks.  Are my thoughts interesting enough to waste paper on?  Do they add anything to the world besides more blahblahblah, that blogging has increased ten-thousand-fold?  

What I do know is that when the writer button is on, I am able to step away from the action  that is my life and gain some immediate perspective.  I am not always able to narrate the events and gain key insights as things happen, especially in the emotional realm, but writing,  daily writing, allows me to digest and reconsider recent history and by doing so, disconnect the emotional/reactionary  and see the blow-by-blow reality.

My partner tells me I have a very strong and active imagination.  He is right.  My imagination saved me as a child.  It provided the happy, steady home I craved.  But it can also get me in trouble when left on its own to run ravage over my relationship.  With too much time on my hands, I can build ramparts and fortresses of defense against imaginary attackers. I think, also in this way, writing can save me.  I can channel my creative imagination towards building something positive, something others might enjoy, rather than building a narrative with which to tear down my relationship with. 

I have wanted to write since I was a child.  My first "novel" was "published" in third grade, a mystery involving lost treasure, that I gave as Christmas presents to my family.  My mother has always urged me to write, and in recent years, my dad has joined in the chorus.  But I never believed in myself enough to do it seriously.  The huge lack of confidence that led me to make so many mistakes with men, and in career choices also held me back from taking myself seriously enough to pursue writing.  I would go through a period when I couldn't hold back the tide of words any longer and would write half of a short story, or one fantastic essay, and then years would pass.  I have a well-worn folder I keep my writing in and periodically I would take out my favorite pieces and read them and literally weep.  I could sense I was good, that this was my gift, but I didn't know how to sustain the desire through the obstacle course of single-motherhood, student-life, and the disasters I continually created with men.   Opening that folder was like seeing my best friend I hadn't seen in years, the best friend that knows you so well she completes you, reflects the best of you back at you for you to marvel at.  "Is that really me?"  This may come-off as self-adoration, but sometimes my words would make me feel swoony with their beauty and power and I really would question if they were mine, if I was still capable of creating like that.  

My words may never have that effect on anyone else, but the most important thing I know is that I feel at my best when I am writing.  I feel powerful, capable, happy, confident, and hopeful.  So whether I am read or not, I will continue to write.  Whether I add something unique or just add to the sea of words, here it is.