writer
I once wanted to be a writer.
A journalist.
I wanted to travel the world and see and touch and taste and understand the world and then communicate it in such a way that my reader felt what I felt and understood me. I wanted to paint with my words what Van Gogh could paint with a brush… I wanted to capture a moment a time and freeze it forever.
I used to write pages and pages in my journal about what I was thinking and feeling and dreaming. I was so expressive….
The key word being “was”.
I am not entirely sure what happened but somewhere along the way the blank page was no longer the friendly empty canvas but instead the mocking empty space where my words never seem to come out how I wish.
When I started this blog it was in hopes of recapturing that loss creativity. But today I sat my desk at work and started three different entries. The words aren’t coming out….
I think, to be honest, its because I am afraid of saying all I want to say. I can be so very good at being fun and silly and shallow that I am afraid to be anything else.
I am afraid that if I talk about my heart or my dreams or my fears that I will be rejected. That you wont like “that” Jamie.
Insecurities are funny that way.
But who am I really writing for? Who am I afraid of?
The truth is I need to write like I need to breathe. I need an outlet, a place to express and explore what I am feeling and seeing.
I think sometimes I may have to write what is on my heart if it it doesn’t tell the best story.
I am learning that I don’t need to write so that you understand me, I need to write so that I understand myself….
