Monday, February 23, 2015

Why I write...

I've thought about this a lot in the past year. Why do I write? It's not a calling for me, like some authors I know. I didn't win any grade school contests or have my sophomore essay raved about in those hallowed halls. Sure, I wrote poetry as a teenager; some of it good and some of it painfully horrible. I toyed with the idea of writing a book 'someday', not because I had aspirations of becoming an author but because I thought it would be a cool thing to do. So why do I write?

There are several things about me that few people know. In fact, I think only my husband knows all of them.

First - I always like to be doing something. Not necessarily something physical. I'm not into sports or hiking or anything like that. But I truly believe that the only way to make my life be more than it is, is to be doing, learning, creating something. Anything.

Second - I've always felt deep down that I have a creative streak, I've just never been able to figure out what it is. I enjoy crocheting, and I've made a ton of jewelry. (see pic of my poor dress form loaded down with pendants).
I've tried painting (pictures, not walls), and even attempted to make my own greeting cards. And while I've had fun stringing, dabbling, and cutting, none of those hobbies satisfied my creative nature.

Third - I have very little confidence in the things I create. I'm hyper-critical of myself, finding fault with everything I do. The finished product is never good enough for my liking, no matter anyone else's opinion.

It wasn't until I began to write that I felt something shift and fall into place. Suddenly, all the years of buying beads and yarn and paint seemed to lead up to this. The act of taking words from my brain and weaving them into satisfying tales fulfills the creative urge that builds inside of my soul, (although I will admit, the process is frustrating as hell), and putting my work out there for everyone to see forces me to free my inner critic (to a point).

So there you have it. That's it. That's why I write. I've finally found my creative outlet. Am I any good at it? Who knows. Maybe. I know I could be better (there's that pesky critic again). But honestly, I always think there's room to improve no matter what I'm doing. I like the freedom writing offers me. The freedom to create what I want, the way I want.

That's why I write.

Saturday, February 7, 2015

I dislike February...

I haven't always. The second month of the year held no special meaning for me whatsoever. It was a countdown towards Spring; the last full month of potentially crazy winter weather; a month of chocolate hearts and valentines. It was a month like all the others - until three years ago. February 15, 2012, my father died. It was unexpected; and though I'd spoken to him on the phone just days earlier, I hadn't seen him in over a year.

I was Daddy's girl; still am, I suppose. Every day I miss him, though thankfully the sharp, stabbing pain through my heart has eased into a dull, throbbing ache, lingering on the fringes of my soul most of the year.

Though it's not through conscious thought, my mood begins to change around the first of February. Always a vivid dreamer, I am tormented in sleep by images of death and torture; I am chased by unseen pursuers; I am prone to violence, defending myself against those who wish me harm. By day, I am moody and unable to focus. I drift from task to task, not sure how or if I will accomplish anything. I know that it's my subconscious dealing with the loss, but I wish I knew how to make it stop.

I love my Dad; I always will. Tears roll down my face as I type this. I don't cry for him often, but occasionally a moment will occur when I think, "I need to tell Dad about that" or I see a news item about something we would have discussed. It hurts, but usually just for a few minutes, then it recedes back into a general kind of melancholy. Except this month.

So if I seem a bit off, I apologize. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately, mostly to myself. I hope that with time, the dreams will stop, the lethargy will turn into something useful, and I'll feel like a normal human being again.

How many days until March?