I’m so tired of thinking backwards. I sit here and wonder when or if I can just live in the moment. The present. Not look back to what life was or could’ve been. Not hate myself for all my regrets and mistakes. My sins. Not worry about the future, wondering who I will be or if I can even survive in this cruel, ugly world.
And then a thought pops up–I am better than my past and my future. I am okay right now and I know I can shutter all the messiness of my past and fears for my future. Sounds good, right? But then a memory hits me or a person from my past contacts me. Or I watch the news (which I’m trying not to do these days) or I beat on myself for not creating every day and making an amazing future for myself. And the darkness sucker punches me and I’m down. I stay down and allow myself to do everyday things but not much else. I don’t communicate. I hide. I wonder if I have what it takes to be successful in this life.
But everyone has a different definition of success. In our current culture, I’m not a success. No solid career, no real money in my bank account, no new everything. In fact, I enjoy the old. Old houses, old cars, comfy, old clothes and shoes and my old-fashioned way of thinking and living. I sell vintage goods and antiques. I love being with my family–most of them are old. My computer is getting old, my car is getting old, my cat is getting old and I’m definitely getting old.
So what’s my point to this meandering? I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. But unlike most days, today I decided to write about it. I usually don’t because something whispers in my ear that I shouldn’t, that what I write doesn’t matter, no one will care about it and I’m not good enough to put my thoughts down. Even if any of that is true, I’m still doing it. I’m not going to let that demon get to me today. It may win tomorrow or the next day, but not today. What I think and write does matter, if to nobody else, to me.
So that’s it right there. My words matter. They make a difference to me. Just writing these few words makes me feel better. It makes me feel like I’m not in a prison cell of my past. I’m not ignoring the moment to worry about the future. I’m here now and I can embrace who I am because that person isn’t so bad. That girl from the past succeeded in ways that still delight this middle-aged woman. That girl was strong and held on to her faith. She survived and even thrived at her best. She wrote and published stories, poetry and articles. She sketched and made jewelry. She danced and laughed and loved. She always prayed and hoped for better days. She didn’t give up because here I am today writing this.
I’m looking at a project that has been several years in the making. My memoir. I wrote a draft during a NaNoWriMo challenge. I’ve written bits and pieces since then. I’ve read books about writing memoir and I’ve taken classes about writing memoir. I wonder what the theme is, who will want to read it and if I should even publish it. And what all that will look like. I think about getting back to it nearly every day and every day, I don’t. Why? The worst parts are already written and I’m okay with revisiting them. The demon? Perfectionism? Aren’t they the same? I need someone to tell me to just do it because it’s important. It’s important to me. If I never publish it, it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter if anyone else reads it. I need to do it as a gift for myself. I can write fiction and poetry and articles on this site whenever I want. My memoir is my ultimate creative project. It’s also the final part of my healing journey. It’s what I want and need and must do. Tell me to do it. Tell that girl from my past, the woman today and my future self to do it. And tell all of us that it will be okay.
For I know that if I can finish my memoir, I can finally feel good about my writing life. More importantly, I’ll finally feel good about myself.
The power of words. The power of the creative life.
***Pleasant words are as a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and health to the bones.–Proverbs 16:24
The Second Chance Writer 