I’m a writer.
The journey to realising that and being able to write it down has been tough. And I can see I always have been – a writer that is. I have piles of journals dating back to when I was little. Always penning it down. My thoughts, my dreams, my fears. But I never counted that as writing when judgement set in.
Somewhere along the way I deemed myself not good. Not good at writing. A bad writer. Not good enough to put pen to paper, finger to key.
And in doing so I expunged the creative flame within.
It’s been almost a year, and after a long dark night of the soul I’ve unleashed it once more. Determined to grow it to be louder and stronger than the voice within that tells me I can’t.
Oh that voice that’s always there, I can’t do it. Not enough. Not good enough.
I’ll be laughed at.
Thoughts and more thoughts.
But they weren’t there when all was lost. Those imaginary people that ridicule… Even they disappeared when I gave it all away. Because I’d safe guarded myself, given up all that was dear and all that possibly could make me vulnerable.
In desperate days of disillusion there was not much left to criticise, just me, laying paralysed without an inkling of creative energy left. But safe – or so I thought.
Yet I remained. A shell of myself, but me none-the-less.
So, I surmised, if I am all that remains, then it must be up to me. Only me. For me to release it all and let the flame soar once more. Daring to be a little higher than before. Not giving a shit at those who ridicule and throw stones, real or imaginary.
The voice is still within but I choose not to listen. Or partially listen but not care. Or not care so much. Whichever is true in the moment.
So I’m gleefully back, weary from the fight yet happy in the realisation that I was worth fighting for. And that I finally realised I was worth fighting for.