I've often
been asked why I write so personally about my life. People have, at times,
wondered why I would lay open my life, my heart, my very soul for all the world
to see. I've been asked more than once, “You're so talented. Why don’t you just write something else—like
fiction?” I’m never really sure how to answer that question. People seem to
think that writing is writing and if I can write about my own life I can surely make up
a life to write about. But it just doesn't work that way. At least it doesn't
for me. I write so personally about my life because once I started doing it, I
had to. I needed to. But now when I cannot write about what’s on my
mind and in my heart, it’s painful. Emotionally, physically, spiritually
painful. And believe it or not, as much
as I share, there is much that I simply cannot.
Years ago a Facebook
friend told me that she followed my posts like she would follow a
favorite author. I was taken aback. I had no idea why she cared what I had to
say, but I was flattered that she did. And I was inspired to write more. I
began writing stories about my life as a single mom, my kids and the occasional bad date and posting them as
Facebook Notes for those on my friend list. Eventually a blog was born.
I’m ashamed
to say I haven't cared for this blog-child as I should have. I haven't done what
is needed for it to gain stature and readership. I haven't done what is necessary
for it to become self-sufficient, or dare I dream…profitable. I've failed time
and again to follow through with opportunities to advance it towards becoming a
book. I've simply written. That’s all.
And even that I've not done reliably, letting this blog-child sit silent for
months at a time on more than one occasion. I've given in to the silence during
the parts I cannot write.
I've been
thinking about why I've not tried harder to somehow form this into a book. The
answer is pretty simple: because it’s not a book—it’s life. Technically there’s
a beginning and an end I guess, but even those elements are shaky. I have no
desire to write about “the beginning” and let’s face it, “the end” will only
occur when I’m…well…unable to write. The "plot" meanders and there's no discernible story arc. And my drinking, cursing,
multiple divorces, questionable parenting and constant teetering on the brink
of financial ruin illustrate that character development is limited at best. It’s
not a book—it’s life. Messy, chaotic, erratic, unpredictable and confusing. It
is at once mundane and exhilarating, hideous and heart-breakingly beautiful. It’s
life, not a book. At least mine’s not. And given all the parts I cannot write,
it would be a book with a lot of holes anyway.
I've also been
thinking about why anyone wants to read about this life of mine. Why does
anyone care what I have to say? I think that answer is simple too. It’s not
because I’m extraordinary—quite the opposite actually. I believe it’s
because I’m not. I’m someone you
know. I’m your best friend who’s been divorced three times. I’m your
brother-in-law raising an autistic son from a previous marriage. I’m the barrista
at your coffee shop who had to file bankruptcy. I’m the mom who’s terrified she's somehow “blown it”
raising her children. I’m the girlfriend who fears she's unlovable. I’m the
employee scared of losing her job. I’m the girl you see walking by, taking teeny-tiny steps and
cursing the pencil skirt that seemed like such a good idea. I’m everyone. I’m you. I believe that’s why you read—and I’m so
grateful that you do—because it’s comforting to feel like you’re not alone. And
because you read, I don’t feel alone either.
I’m
going through a hole in my life right now—a part I can’t write—and I’m afraid I've once again given in to the silence (and just when it probably seems I would have so much to say). It just goes to
show, things are rarely exactly what they seem. But because it hurts—it truly
does—to not write what’s in my heart, I will try harder to find the parts I can share. Because even if I can’t write
what’s right on top, I can probably write what’s been shoved over to the side or squished underneath.
I will try again tomorrow to find one of those
parts and write something good about it.
I really hope you’ll want to read it.
I really hope you’ll want to read it.
