My insecurity has reached new heights. I posted on Friday about feeling all dried up. Nothing. Nada. Sometimes I tell myself I'm mulching. That makes me feel better for a few minutes. Then those voices, you know the ones I mean, start shouting, we told you so. You're no writer. Who did you think you were anyway. So you wrote and published one book. Ha. Means nothing. Bet you can't do another. You're too old to be doing this anyway. Doesn't matter that Whistler's mother painted at 90. Stop kidding yourself.
Then I get quiet and ask myself, who would I be if I don't write anymore. I could simply say I'm retired. It's legitimate. I'm going to be 63 in April. But am I done? Don't I have more to say? More to learn? More to figure out? More to communicate? I thought so. So why isn't it flowing? All I know is that I have to trust this process and hope that this dry place is temporary. And tell those nasty voices to go away. And perhaps quit trying to pin labels on me that make me crazy - if I'm a wife than I have to do "wifely" chores. If I'm a writer, I "have to" write. If I'm a mother, I have to "mother." Why can't I just be.....me?
Insecure Writers Support Group
Welcome to Following the Whispers blog
Thank you so much for taking the time to visit. Hope you enjoy your stay. I blog here on Monday and Tuesday. This blog was created at the time my memoir came out, in February, 2009. Its motto was: creating a life of inner peace and self-acceptance from the depths of despair.
"ONLY ONE THING IS MORE FRIGHTENING THAN SPEAKING YOUR TRUTH, AND THAT IS NOT SPEAKING IT." Naomi Wolf
"We are called human beings, not human doings."
Wes Nisker, Buddhist teacher
"The way to do is to be."