The other day, Susan asked me what she should write about and I told, her just start writing. Like I've told so many people before. Like they teach at the National Writing Project.
Let's write, shall we?
If only it were that easy.
I like to get in my own way. I like to give advice I don't know how to follow myself.
The other night, I told a dear friend that her writing was amazing and she should pitch, audition, find a home for it because her voice deserved to be heard.
When am I going to believe that my voice deserves to be heard?
Voice of the year submissions close soon. I have the tab open in my browser. Because that's what I do with things I'm avoiding, I open them in new tabs in my browser.
I'm waiting for something. I'm always waiting for something. Waiting for permission, waiting for validation and approval, waiting for someone else to tell me I'm good enough.
Only, that happened once. I had a post syndicated on BlogHer. Someone saw something I wrote and said "Hey, this is good."
And it didn't change anything.
I don't know what I was expecting it to change.
I don't know what I'm looking for, what I'm waiting for, what I want. I don't know when I'm going to feel like I'm doing it, like I've arrived, like I'm worthy. When I'm going to feel like I'm not just preparing.
NaBloPoMo made me get out of my own way. Made me publish things before I was always ready. Made me just write. And then I fell off the wagon.
And when I stopped doing the work it stopped working. Of course.
But I still wonder, what's the point? What am I doing here?
Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe there is no big picture, no macro sense in which this all works out. Maybe I just show up every day and do the work, do what I must. Maybe that's all I can really control.
Or maybe not.