I love writing. I love weaving together a sentence, working in the delicate balance of saying exactly what I mean while also focusing on the art of language. Some artists work in clay or acrylics. I work in words. Lately, though, I'm stuck. In a former life I had another blog where I wrote openly about the challenges of adoption and parenting, about my journey with anti-depression meds, about life. And then I realized that it was incredibly selfish to process so honestly about my children and then post for the world to see. Now I'm here on this "teacher" blog, and I'm writing occasionally and publishing rarely. Sometimes I write about race; other times I muse about my faith. Occasionally I play with poetry, and mostly I write in rambling prose. But to what end? It's a question I ponder frequently. I have this incredible love of writing, of tracing words on a page and leaving my heart there in black and white. When I'm driving in my car to work or lying awake in the early morning, my mind is the page where words weave and tumble. Here at my little desk in my upstairs workspace, my fingers often can't keep up. I just have so much to say. But what is this writing? Is it a journal that in my self-aggrandizement I believe the world wants to read? Is it a blog with a unique, intended audience? Is it somewhere in the middle? I describe myself as a writer, but I've been paid for my words just once. I've been published in a newspaper twice. That isn't exactly an impressive resume. Not always effortlessly, the words come to me, but what do I do with them? For now, I keep writing.
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September 2020
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