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The 30th will mark one month since we lost our home and subsequently transformed our minivan into a traveling Gypsy-mobile. Unfortunately, not much has changed, but we are in a holding pattern at least. The kids are happy and healthy, and Matt and I continue to make this a "choose your own adventure" scenario to get through the rough spots.
I've been thinking a lot about writing. Of course, between job hunting, apartment hunting, school, and kids, I've only managed to scribble out sentences here and there into a notebook with an old chewed up pencil that I found in one of the motels that we stayed in previously. However, I. am. writing.
Perhaps this is sad but in those few sentences I've captured more than just the right words; I've found that 'grit under your nails' honesty that lacks in all my other work. Finally, they ring true. I think this is because I was never really honest with myself before. Fear always managed to get the better of me, which allowed for the many excuses to prevent me from writing anything of substance.
I was constantly worried about my ideas, and what would sell, and what is popular, and if I don't read this book/author/blog OMG! I will always be that loser who calls herself a writer but is really just a poser because I am not doing it THIS way. Nothing felt right. This lack of "right-ness" in turn made me doubt my abilities. In my doubt, I lost my voice.
In having to deal with our set of circumstances I have realized that this fear is rather pointless. I mean, being homeless with small children is -- by far -- one of the most frightening experiences I think that anyone can go through. With this new sense of true fear, not only have I found my voice but also I am no longer afraid to let others hear it.
And, if I'm doing it wrong ... well, I'm going to be wrong in all the right ways.
I've been thinking a lot about writing. Of course, between job hunting, apartment hunting, school, and kids, I've only managed to scribble out sentences here and there into a notebook with an old chewed up pencil that I found in one of the motels that we stayed in previously. However, I. am. writing.
Perhaps this is sad but in those few sentences I've captured more than just the right words; I've found that 'grit under your nails' honesty that lacks in all my other work. Finally, they ring true. I think this is because I was never really honest with myself before. Fear always managed to get the better of me, which allowed for the many excuses to prevent me from writing anything of substance.
I was constantly worried about my ideas, and what would sell, and what is popular, and if I don't read this book/author/blog OMG! I will always be that loser who calls herself a writer but is really just a poser because I am not doing it THIS way. Nothing felt right. This lack of "right-ness" in turn made me doubt my abilities. In my doubt, I lost my voice.
In having to deal with our set of circumstances I have realized that this fear is rather pointless. I mean, being homeless with small children is -- by far -- one of the most frightening experiences I think that anyone can go through. With this new sense of true fear, not only have I found my voice but also I am no longer afraid to let others hear it.
And, if I'm doing it wrong ... well, I'm going to be wrong in all the right ways.
