Writing

I find that when my heart is heavy and sad, I can pretty much shut the world down and write.  I think writing is a medicine of sorts for me.  Is it bad that I don't feel like talking to my friends? Listening, yes.  Talking, no.  I want quiet and peace and the free flow of my magical cheap little instrument.  While I was working today, I started thinking about my writing and how I've neglected it lately.  I've gotten lazy with my journal entries and I haven't stretched myself much. 

All day long I had various images of people from my past with questions or comments said to me.  Linked together, I realized I love to write and there have been numerous people that have believed in me as a writer.  I also could see and feel that I have a lot of deeply (and not so hidden) insecurities about my writing. 

I actually have a lot of insecurities.  I think about my grammar and my intelligence.  Is my vocabulary grand enough? Have I read enough to even consider myself a writer? Why can't I dig all the  classics? There are so many great writers out there, so much smarter and better read...
I have insecurities about the things I share.  Even in writing this blog, people could read and interpret things in such different ways.  Because writing is so personal to me, I fear criticism and judgment.  I need to not care at all, but I still care.  I think about my lack of discipline and how others work so much harder at their craft, and the list goes on.

But then I remember myself as a little girl hid in the back of a closet and alone.  I buried myself in a library closet with an old beat up typewriter.  I stretched myself on the floor and typed out my thoughts in letters, poems, stories, and I was happy doing so.  In writing I get back in touch with that girl, an intrinsic part of who I am.  It was a time before jobs and careers, making a living and surviving.  Expression was important to me whether I was pretending to ice skate on green shabby carpet or dance to the music of my record player.  I liked to write because it flowed out of me in a better way than the words I could speak.  Writing allowed me to keep myself free and solid, still tender and feeling and full of dreams.