Before this week, I hadn't written in a while. I've had parts of ideas, usually late at night when I'm too tired to get up and come back to my computer and type them all out, but I never get up to do it. I hate to admit it, but I'm afraid.
It's hard to explain, and it's probably even harder for you to understand even if I tried to explain my thoughts on me and my writing. I suppose it boils down to exposure. I've never felt so vulnerable, so naked as I do when I'm writing...more specifically when someone reads what I've written.
When it comes to my feelings, I'm guarded and all walled-up. And no matter how hard I try, my emotional baggage seeps into anything and everything I write. My reader(s) may not realize it, but there's times when I'm laying everything out for the world to see and it's terrifying. I feel that if anyone ever really, truly knew me, they would hate me- and the worst part of it all is that I could not blame them.
All of my distress aside, it feels good to put my thoughts to paper again. It's so freeing to get rid of some of these conflicts. I can define them, make them pretty, and resolve them through stories and fictional characters. They are my little experiments, and my time spent creating them brings me joy that I'd forgotten how much I needed.
I have hope for a literary career again, and it's breathed new life into me. I want to succeed for more reasons than money (although I hide behind that false pretense so I don't appear as emotionally invested in my dreams as I really am). I want to succeed because writing is my passion and my purpose. I know, if I were to be given a chance, I could make someone, somewhere happy with the things I write. I pretend that I'm selfish to hide how selfless my intentions really are. I know, I'm an enigma unto myself.