Skip to main content

The Green Door

 
 
You know......, I thought this blog was going to be different. Not this particular one...all of them. When I first started I was going to write about my love with colour, my OBSESSION with Moroccan styling and all things fabric-y and textural. But it's not.
This blog is about me and that's pretty much all. It seems to be an outpouring of my own thoughts to myself, about myself. I'm not sure now if anyone at all is interested in reading this. Why would they be? What is to gain? I'm not sure if it is extremely selfish and egotistical. Not sure.

What I do know is that I started this blog because I wanted to write. Loved to write. Needed to write.
When I'm writing my world makes sense, I feel whole. I would write more often if only I could quiet the doubt. To be honest, and in my very first blog I promised I would be, I am terribly, terribly afraid to share my writing. I am afraid of ridicule. True. Always have been, and  not only when it comes to writing, afraid of ridicule in general. Afraid that someone is saying ....."what the hell is she doing?...how embarrassing for her.....this dribble is so boring.....who does she think she is?" and the big one...."She is not good enough to be a writer!" NOT GOOD ENOUGH. Underlined and emboldened in red. This is why there are many days, sometimes months when I do not blog, I do not journal, I do not embrace the pen or caress the keyboard.  I do, however, every day, have something to say, some observation to share or some personal insight to laugh about publically. But doubt is a powerful master.

Writers write. I would like to make a living from writing. Could I? Who knows? Maybe. I would like to think that my words somehow resonate with others. That out there somewhere is some soul going, "Oh I hear you Sister!" and that somehow I have made someone, laugh or think, or spur themselves into their own personal fight with their own personal demons.

Am I good enough? I have to believe I am. As a writer, as a human, as a divine spirit.
I am standing at a door, a beautiful green door, just open it and walk through, I say to myself...be a writer, writers write.....

To be continued...........................................

Comments

  1. I enjoy your writing - it is beautiful, sincere, funny and most of all honest. Thank you for sharing.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Broken free

I made an angel. Created her out of clay. Painstakingly I sculpted and moulded her. I loved her. I loved her heavy wings, they way they sheltered her and protected her heart. I loved that tiny heart, the way she looked down on to it "I will always look after you" she whispered, "you are safe".  Until the day she broke.   My son rang me on my way home. His voice was shaky, apprehensive. "Something terrible has happened" he mumbled. Moving straight into mother mode, I panicked. "What is it?? Are you ok??" "I broke her...I didn't mean to... she fell...I tried to catch her...I wasn't quick enough"  Oh My god... who?, where? What the?????? "Your angel mum... she smashed!!" The poor boy. He knew I loved her, created her, protected her. But the sense of relief was instant. Just a sculpture, not a life, a girl or an animal. Just a sculpture. It wasn't long however that the realisation of what had just...

Dream-song - A Tribute to Shavarnia

Once upon a time there was a girl. A girl with aspirations and dreams. Dreams of colour, of movement, of dance. Of spirit and angels and love. As the girl grew she was taught a great many things. How to walk, how to hold herself, what to think, what to wear, how to act. The girl with the dreams kept dreaming but her dreams were now in the background and her REAL life was all around her. Every now and then the girl would focus on her forgotten dream and in return the dream would sing to her. The dream-song was so beautiful. It sang of a life of purpose and peace. The girl tried to follow the music of her dream-song however she often lost her way and the song would fade into the background again. After many years of this following and fading, the girl fell to her knees and wept. She wept for the dream lost. She wept for the futility of her REAL life. Her face awash with broken hearted tears, the girl gave up. Gave up trying to find balance between her dreams and her responsibi...

Neuralyze me

Remember the Neuralyzer from the MIB (Men In Black) movies? One zap and all memory of what just happened was erased! Zappo. Gone! No-one ran from the scene in hysterics, screaming Aliens, Aliens, we’re all going to die! No one went home and built alien proof homes or developed elaborate alien detection systems…preparing for the worst. One zap and they simply continued their day, completely unaware and at peace in the moment. So, I have been thinking about this (and learning some stuff too). What if we couldn’t remember our past experiences? I mean really, didn’t know what we had been doing or feeling back there. What if we didn’t have any memory of our job, our finances, our likes and dis-likes?  What if we couldn’t conjure up past agreements with ourselves, ‘I’ll never do that again, I’ll be better next time, I won’t break it, drop it, lose it!” I wonder what we would do if we woke up one day with just the daylight and nothing else? How then, would our day unfold? I t...