I finally did it. My goal for March was to register my domain name, something I’d been procrastinating officially for a month, unofficially for years. The financial layout was insignificant, about $35 for the first year, but money isn’t the main concern. I was and am dealing with the discomfort of allowing myself to be seen. Not that I would necessarily try to attract attention, and it’s entirely feasible that no one would see my site if I don’t promote it.
I have created at least one blog before, and I don’t think I was nearly so hard on myself then. I don’t remember questioning the right for the blog to exist. I was excited to make it and so I did just that. My passion back then was baking, and every moment that I wasn’t working in the hospital revolved around it. But in hindsight, I wonder if I had used baking to create momentum for what I’ve always wanted in my heart to do, which is to write. Not that I hid behind baking, but it became the validation for my writing to exist out in the world. I’m not sure exactly why I petered out, quitting after a few months, just like I tended to do with any writing endeavor. Maybe I was just trying to do too much back then, but equally likely is that I started to feel exposed and decided it was best to crawl back into my shell.
When I come back to read those entries, I actually think I was a much better writer back then. I am afraid that I may have peaked, and now am only capable of writing substandard drivel. Another fear is that I have missed the opportunities to create my most impactful writing, as if nothing so substantial as being a wayward alcoholic, having a preemie, dealing with postpartum depression and PTSD, or becoming sober will ever happen to me again. There is also the pervasive fear that I don’t really have anything to say, at least nothing that anyone else would deem interesting or noteworthy. What would really bother me then, is why do I have this aching, persistent desire to write if I wasn’t meant to do it? Or really, wasn’t mean to be good at it?
If I kept at it, I’m sure I could mine a treasure trove of fears and insecurities around writing that could fill a book. I could title the book “A Million Reasons Why I Can’t Write”. The irony of writing a book about why I can’t write isn’t lost on me, but it would be the kind of irony I can live for.
Until I write that book, and maybe even long past it, I will be here, struggling to be true to my heart even though it’s scary to do so.
Because it is scary to do so.