I spend a lot of time thinking about writing. I also spend a lot of time actually writing: it’s often one of the first things I do in the morning. I have pages and pages and notebooks and notebooks and digital docs full of words in the specific combinations that I’ve come up with. And, yet, relatively few of them have made it into this blog. What’s up with that?
I’m writing on my iPad in my living room on the couch next to our woodstove which is lit (by which I mean there’s an actual wood fire in there; not like “this party is lit”). It’s somewhere around 17 degrees (farenheit) outside right now and our furnace went out a few weeks ago. Fortunately, we actually have two furnaces and we got the broken one fixed right away but in the process of getting it fixed, we discovered some larger electrical problems which have made us skittish about using the furnace. Our woodstove was expensive and, honestly, it’s kind of fantastic to be using it for more than aesthetic reasons. And by “fantastic” I think I mean all that expense feels very justified. Plus, fire is a beautiful thing to be able to stare into.
I have various notebooks and journals, one of which is dedicated to this blog. I like to write longhand, in cursive. This probably has something to do with how I learned to write in school and my age and the history of technology and my specific brain development, but I won’t bore you with trying to piece together the timeline. I also used to be an English/ Language Arts Teacher so this step-by-step process of writing (brainstorm, outline, draft, revise, edit, etc…) is pretty deeply engrained me. But I’m not doing this blog post that way. I think the young people these days would say I’m “raw dogging” it which is a term which I’m assuming comes from something sexual and which my kids would cringe to see me using. So what I really mean to say is that I just sat down and started writing this post — no brainstorming or notes or even an idea much less drafts.
Who the hell gave me permission to do that?
Well, I did. This is my blog.
This is revolutionary thinking for someone like me who has spent much of her life feeling like she has to get permission or approval for, well, pretty much everything and specifically for writing. And yet writing is one thing that I’ve been doing a lot of. I’ve been overly precious about writing though. It only counts if it’s in certain publications. It only counts if I’m getting paid. It only counts if I’ve gone through a certain number of drafts and covered the whole thing in blood, sweat, and tears (my own, of course). It only counts if it’s beautiful and perfect and inspired.
Ugh. How insufferable is that inner monotonous voice counting every bean and bob, jot and tittle?
Every word I put down here is shouting over that annoying inner voice. Every time I click the “publish” button, I’m punching those gatekeepers. Each time I write here, I’m reaching out.
I’m here. Welcome.
Rhena Writes 