Not that it matters, because they may come back for months and not find a new post and give up on me altogether. And then sometimes I think, "Oh yeah! I remember that! What fun!" Sometimes as I read over them, I cry, sometimes I laugh. But I always think, "Hmm. I should write more. I can do better than that." Besides which, I miss it. I miss writing like I miss my friends back home. It seems like forever since I've spent any real time dedicated to writing. Real writing, too. Like, I have two, no actually come to think of it, I actually have three half written books. Okay, so one is only about 1/4 of the way...still, I have ideas floating around, but I fail to commit myself to completing them. I go back and re-write, edit, re-edit, cut, scrap, re-think, second guess and start over so much that I think in doing so, I convince myself that I can't get it right, so I stop trying, at least for a period before I muster up whatever it is to make myself go back to it and get some more pages complete. Then the tearing it all apart comes again. I struggle. Isn't it just supposed to flow? Isn't it just supposed to be easy and natural?
Or does the struggle make it into what it is supposed to be?
I'm not really sure, and since I'm not sure, maybe that's my cue that a real writer I am not. Whatever a "real writer" is...
I don't really know these answers, and I'm not even sure if there are definitive answers to such questions. And if there are, do they matter? I mean, really, do they? I will never be a great writer, one who's works end up being studied and analyzed by students and recited and re-read for generations to come. And I'm okay with that. I just like to write and get shit off my mind. It's a real release, writing stuff down. It works great as a form of therapy, at least it does for me.
I remember struggling during my first few years in recovery because my counselors and my sponsor wanted me to write. Write my feelings down every day. Write my step work down. Write all about my faults and weaknesses, write about what amends I needed to make...
Write, write, write.
I kicked back every step of the way. I don't know why, either, other than still being in the mindset of, "If you tell me to do something, I won't, just because." Being a recovering addict can really be difficult. At least it was for me in the first few years. To all those counselors out there, to that sponsor who fired me as a sponsee (sp?), to the people in my life who tried to help me, even when I made it nearly impossible to like me in the least, THANK YOU! And I'm sorry.
I think I found my way through much of my life's biggest issues and difficulties through writing. Eventually, I realized how very much it had helped me. And I realized how very much I enjoyed it. Why, then, if I know it's good for me and I know how much I enjoy it, why do I become so complacent with it?
Sigh. I don't know. But I do know that today I'll write a bit, hell, look here, I already have. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but for today, I can commit some time to writing again.
Now, which book in progress do I pick back up? Hmmmm....
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