Writing gives me such pleasure but one that I don’t indulge in often enough. My soul aches for the words it does not share, the stories it does not tell. How might I bring these to life when my daily activities don’t give me the time to think, breathe, and write? I want my summer by the sea where I can get lost in the words while I take in the beauty, sounds, and smells of the ocean. How can I wax philosophical when all I have time for is laundry? And I whine whilst I waste precious moments sitting in front of the boob tube. Is it that I don’t have the time or the true passion? It’s probably a little of both.
I also think it’s a fear of failure. I worry that what I write will not be well-received or understood. I doubt my own talent at times. I know that I ache for it so maybe it’s time to write with only me as the audience. I don’t have to share and if I do, it can be with a trusted group of friends that will act as sounding boards, not harsh critics.
