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How writing forces you to engage with the world
I feel better, and I know it’s because I finally broke through the weird, sticky, spiderweb-like material that seems to coat me more deeply with each day that I don’t write.
A couple of days ago, I managed to post to my Substack newsletter. It was a paltry attempt, to be sure. I was distracted, and it showed. It was not my best work. And if I respected my audience, yada yada, I would have put my effort into it, waiting to press publish, thought about it.
But, for me, such sensible behavior represents a death knell. For sure, I would have — I did — dislike(d) it and wanted to eschew it, like, fast. Cast it out of and off of me like a dirty rag. Shame, anyone? Where’s my Brene Brown book when I need it.
My point is, I can’t write “for my audience,” at least, not yet. It’s too scary. It’s too much responsibility. And, it’s distracting.
For now, at this point in my life, I need to write for me. I need to write for survival. I need to write to engage with myself and my life. And even then I have a long way to go. It can only be partial engagement.
Life is so painful. I was just up at my neighbor’s house. She just came from a visit to her mom’s. She said her mom used to be this vibrant, powerful person, the queen bee…
