I enjoy using chopsticks but am not particularly graceful at it.
I think I get caught up in watching myself as I wiggle the sticks to get them situated comfortably. I purchased some ‘real’ ones and laugh each time I use them, which isn’t often because when I buy sushi or some other foodstuffs, the wooden ones in paper tend to come along in the bag.
At one point, I nearly gave up using chopsticks because for one, I thought I looked ridiculous using them and two, I felt I simply wasn’t good enough at them.
The same goes for writing.
I once took a creative writing program by correspondence (for those in the know: Long Ridge Writer’s Group); the responses I got back on my assignments from my instructor were less than encouraging. I stopped the program mid-stream — partly because of finances and where I was in my life but primarily because I felt I wasn’t good enough.
Eventually, I found my way back to writing. Or maybe, writing found me. I started blogging and have met some fantastic folks because of it.
Life intervened and I stopped writing as regularly as I had been.
I think I had become addicted to the experience of seeing how many ‘likes’ I could get on a post over my addiction to the enjoyment of writing.
Because external validation and all.
I compared my ‘like’ count to those of my blogging friends and felt quite defeated. Many of them had 40, 60, 100+ likes, while I had one or two if I was doing extremely well.
And I nearly quit.
But just like the chopstick debacle, this is how it is. I don’t pick up my sushi like anyone else (well, maybe there is some other uncoordinated weirdo out there in the universe!) and I don’t write like anyone else. I keep pace during challenge months and then slack off for weeks at a time.
In the midst of it all, I write for me. I have those moments when I want to
stop, but …
The dreams come and the stories whisper in my ear and