I have been afraid of writing, for the past two years, actually almost from the day when I discovered the beauty of words, back to my childhood. The desire to write, like the bubbles in the iced sparkling water, always makes me want to burst out. Quick! Write THIS down! What a vivid memory. I shall not let it go but develop it in my future novel. Look! I’ve got THIS and THIS should start the first line, leading the first page. Oh, how I’m longing to picture THIS exact moment in words, to hold and mold THIS feeling for eternity…
Often, THIS becomes THAT, THAT becomes WHAT, and I like to indulge myself in some self criticism or lamentation, crunching all bumping excitement into a unworthy daydream. Being an avid reader, I am continuously stroked by the excellence of the others, whose name, on the cover of the book, keep shooting sharp and arrogant lights that blind me. “I don’t care!” I murmured to myself, “what is the point to write?” It is a rough task and it is a risky journey. I’m tired.
Life pushes us go forward, filling daily life with a long and tiresome to to list. What do I have? I have no choice! I’m not born to write, neither educated to write well. Hey. I’m leading an extreme normal life, even though I have crossed countries and restarted a new life: I started to work a little, bought a house, had a baby, and then found myself being dissolved in a busy stay-at-home routine. I keep reading a lot while never dare question when is my turn to write down something.
I’m not brave. If so, I would have picked up the pen on the counter, the broken pencil in the middle of a notebook, any crayon laying on the carpet; I would have grab a post-it, the paper that Claire just doodled, even a kitchen towel; I would have slowly opened my writing journal, eagerly clicked my WordDoc, or frequently renewed my blog. No, No, I’m not lazy. I am just being coward.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid to let my inner voice out, to brag my ego’s partial assertions, to look back and let myself down, to shock myself by have been writing only rubbish, to be judgmental and to be judged, to become another ME, who is not as nice nor as smart as this one.
However, I was brave today, and right now, when my big daughter has finally restarted school and the little one is soundly napping. I opened this old site which bears my daily sparkles — surprisingly, not all of them rubbish, and suddenly I want to be braver, a little bit more.
To open a new page, to let my fingers move slowly but freely, to listen to the deepest voice in my brain that is telling me: why not now, to put it down?