I want to write. About what I have no idea. I am a ball of emotions. I want to impart some immensely emotional or prophetic piece that will stir the hearts of whomever reads it. Yet I can’t for the life of me think of what I could or even would write.

When I was younger, writing was how I would cope with my emotions. I’m a very cerebral person and live (for the most part) in my head. For many years I thought this was the way everyone was but… I have learned it’s kind of just me and a handful of other people. Writing things out always helped me get my thoughts straight. By letting the words flow from my fingertips I could examine and evaluate them in such a way that made my feelings these abstract “editable” things. I could rearrange and reword them in such a way that I could make them make sense. Now I leave everything bottled up.

The most likely culprit of my inaction is due to the secrecy I held. Or of what I was worried would be found by someone else, should I put it in some electronic journal. Some may respond by saying “well, why wouldn’t you just have a secret journal, that no one could read?” And what would be the point of that, Jan? “A writer writes so a reader can read.” I have always felt that way, which is why I always treated my life like an open book. I wanted to share my story so I felt heard or understood. Then the secrets began and the dislike for my openness was made apparent that I shut down.

Then there was the “distractions” whenever I would write or the belittling that would ensue. It started outside but it moved deeper inward to the point that I believed it as gospel. I stopped writing. I couldn’t let myself believe that I was good. I refused.

I think the moment that started to reverse all of it was when my husband told me that my novel was good. The mouth who had set the ball of my self loathing in motion was the one who picked it up from its trajectory. Its strange. That really did undo everything from before. Well… I wouldn’t go as far as to say that. What it did do was repair some of the damage. It brought me the light that I needed to get out of the darkness of which I had allowed myself to be consumed.

Now that I am older I have let go of the want to be a “famous” author, or even one that has household recognition. I’m finally in a place where I would be happy as a “published author.” My biggest dream is to grab a professionally printed and bound copy of my manuscript from a bookstore shelf, hold it in my hands and know that I made it.

Now if only I could get this want to write to line up with the manuscripts I have languishing on various computers and thumb drives.