I haven't written--really written--in a very long time. Long enough that I can't quite remember when I last composed a piece of any substance at all. Long enough that I have been craving it for some time now.
Every so often, I put another one of these posts up. Where I stand and acknowledge my apparent death as a writer. I share how much I loved it and express that something magical happened as my fingers stretched across the keyboard--it was as if the wisps of my emotions and experiences knowingly lead me along, one at a time, until I reached what I was looking for all along.
I then clarify that I was no remarkable writer and that I never expected to make a significant impact with my words. But it brought me peace to write and to share those thoughts.
Somewhere along the way, I remember how deeply I love the journey of writing and recommit to a life filled with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences. And, for a small time, I hold myself to my rediscovered passion.
The trouble with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences, though, is that they take time and focus. Which is something that I love to give to writing, so let's try this again. The bigger trouble with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences is that they can always be improved. Which is also something that I love--I love that there is an inherent lack of finality in writing. However, the perfectionist tendencies in me take that quality and turn it into reason for procrastination. Post after post remain drafts because they were set aside to be perfected before they were presented to my small audience.
Well, here I am. And I have decided something. My writing isn't perfect, but it is real--and I am okay with that. Speaking of which, I best leave this real writing to study for and take a final.
To all who may stumble upon this post, please accept it as a peace offering in the battle between perfectionism and a writer's love.