I’m reading a book about writing and it suggested that I write why I am writing (this blog) in order to inspire myself to keep doing it when I want to fall backwards into a pool of emails.
To give myself meaning to this part of my life. That I’m not saying anything new, but maybe in trying to describe my limited experience- I can participate and share with all of you (flowers and ghosts and trolls included) and maybe, inspire someone else to risk continuing forward with whatever their deal is- even when it seems like there are plenty of reasons not to (who cares, make money, no one needs to hear your opinion, etc). I know what I am: an extremely priviledged, sun damage spotted, shaky older white lady with a few generic character impressions. I am lazy, I did ok in college but not great, I’m no genius and I’m in the latter part of my life- after big success (for me, anyway) and without aspiration for anything bigger than ongoing employment due to above-mentioned sloth. And if I can act like my creativity is worth pursuing, with all the doubts and realities included, maybe someone will be able tell their, more interesting story and I will get to enjoy it. And honestly, and this is the less admirable (?) part, I’d love to have written a book. I love, love, love-love-love-love books.