No one may ever read my writing
Maybe that’s okay.
I’ve ventured into writing before, dipping my toes in the proverbial water. I remember the first time I tried to write something; I was nine or ten, and had fallen in love with the American Girl series. I was saddened over how few stories there were in our local library system, so I tried to write my own. It was awful and my mother, ever the unflinching critic at that stage of my life, told me so.
Since that summer, I’ve picked up and put down my pens (keyboards, whatever) multiple times. Somewhere after 18 I switched from fiction to almost-nonfiction. I wasn’t brave enough to really tell my own story but I wanted to believe that my story was worth telling.
Each time I started writing again, I stopped almost as abruptly. I was constantly halted by one thought: who cares anyway? My mom was the only one who ever read my writing, and in the later years of our relationship she became the kind of mom who praised things I did no matter what. It was weird, I couldn’t cope with the idea that nobody (except mom) wanted to read my words, and I quit.
This time, I’m drawn to the straight up facts and maybe that’s what will keep me in the game. If I keep coming back to writing it must mean there’s something here that I need, right? So maybe if my writing is based in reality and done because it’s something I *must do*…maybe this time it won’t matter whether anyone reads what I wrote. Maybe the writing of it can be enough.