I don't talk about my children, though they are the center of my world and each day is spent helping them grow into the fine young men that I know they are becoming. In spite of my sometimes negative influences, they are so kind and thoughtful. Now and then, they'll mention someone or bring something to my attention that shows me how much thinking is going on beneath their surfaces and how very loving they are. I feel so honored to have them for sons. I don't talk about them—but not because they don't mean everything to me.
I don't talk about my day-to-day. Mostly, this is because my day-to-day is pretty boring. And routine. Important routines, but still blasé. But a few of my day-to-day events have been helping my sons with a ridiculous amount of homework considering that school ends for the year in three weeks, a bit of light babysitting (which has rejuvenated my spirits), and planning for some big around-the-house projects. There's a lot of work ahead of me but I'm looking forward to it.
I don't talk about my writing, even when I talk about my writing. One reason for this is because when all I wrote on my blog was about writing, I became bored OUT OF MY MIND. I also felt like a giant fake and an impostor (because I'm certainly no expert). My blog became a chore to me instead of a place I treasured. For those of you who still hang around this place, I'm sure you've noticed this change. For some, it's not a change for the better. For others, well, I hope it is. Regardless, in this aspect, it is a good change for me and I'm happier here than I have been in over a year.
As for the other reasons I don't talk about writing, I'm not entirely sure why. I think there's a large degree of fear in it. Fear of failure. Fear of risk. Fear of appearing the fool. Fear that because I don't have the "agent," the "contract," or the "novel on the shelf" (yet) it means that I am not, in fact, a writer. Which I know is "The Great Lie" but I still buy into it. In addition, I'm not even sure what I would say about my writing. I can mention the genre, the subject, the fact that I am writing, but really, what else is there to say about it? That hasn't been better said by about 10,000 other people?
I don't talk about the doubt and the desire to give up. How there are days (or weeks) where I wonder what I've gotten myself into. How easy it is to convince myself I can't write anything worth reading. How the hard of this job looms and so too does the question, "Is it worth it?" How the loneliness of working behind the screen gets to me. How missed opportunities dog at my heels.
I don't talk about the things I'm okay with: okay with how long my journey is compared to others and okay with being in a smaller pool of writers (where I live) who write fantasy for an adult audience. I'm more than okay with the successes of others and can declare with complete honesty that I rejoice (rejoice!) with those who reach important milestones in their lives. I'm not jealous of that success and the only twinge of discomfort I feel is disappointment in myself for not having pushed myself harder than I have. But I'm learning to be okay with my mistakes and to just try harder in the future.
I don't talk about the joy of writing, of how using words to unravel the jumble in my head and heart eases things inside of me. Or how fun it is to dive into the lives of characters who are braver, snarkier, or more troubled than I am. I don't talk about a sense of accomplishment (and an occasional dose of pride) coming from creating something that didn't exist before. Neither do I often mention how exhilarating it is to feel—really feel!—the emotions of my characters when they live through the things I put them through. (Or how sometimes I feel voyeuristic when I have to write a kissing scene. Really. I'm 30. With two kids. Please tell me other people blush when they write kissy scenes.)
I don't talk about the life-sustaining love I bear for my husband or how he is the only pocket of air in the world. How the moment he comes home and wraps his arms around me, I breathe for the first time during the day. Or how loving him is the most intense thing, the most important thing, and how it terrifies me to love someone this much. How vulnerable it makes me and how I know I can't—and wouldn't—change it for anything.
I don't talk about these things and I'll probably continue to not talk about them much, but I'm talking about them today.
What don't you talk about?
Until next time,