Some Kind of Failure

It seems silly to point out, as if not doing so would alter the course of history, but sometimes it seems that if I don’t I will lose a part of me. The me, that can’t help but string words together like pearls on a string, whether fake or real, not even I can always tell. I found another blog today. It has almost become a treasure hunt for me as I’m searching, following clues, sniffing out for similes- poetical- melodic. Fictitious is not required but a reality put together with ingenious stitching is.

Anyways. This blog is written by a young lady (Woman? Girl?- how do we define ourselves caught between girlish teenager and a married woman?!) She writes in the way I wish I could. I compare myself to these people and there is this knowing in me that I should be like that. But I sit down to write, with all the good intentions of the Pharisees, and fail. I get one, two, and on good days maybe three paragraphs in and suddenly I go......_________..... Yes, just like that. An empty space follows a few words. Call it writer block, call it the end of my inspiration, call it normal. I call it my failure. I know. How dramatic. But it is easy to judge me when it’s not your dream.

Needless to say, at one point she presents the question someone else once posed to her- how is she such a good writer? Yes, my thoughts exactly. Did I fall off the creation belt when God was sprinkling people with writer’s ability? Did I miss that class in Heaven? This magnificent writer says that simply she once had someone believe in her. She had someone tell her that they could see her name on books sitting in shelves throughout bookstores.

Is wrong for me to be jealous of that?

Yes.
 

I know, I know. I’ve had people tell me that I could write (just like I could sing...almost insinuating I lacked the ability to do it well but saying I could do it.) Yet, someone did even give me a couple of gems in the way of storylines. But no one. I repeat no one has ever told me that they could see MY name on a book. I’m not angry at that fact. Really, I’m not!

 

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

-Shut up Shakespeare.-

I’m realizing there is something to what she says. If I want to write and write well the biggest hurdle I’m going to need to leap is believing I can.

I can string words together to make beautiful sentences that shimmer and shine like the stars.

I can group these star like sentences into constellational paragraphs.

And I can turn these constellations into stories, books, essays.

What. A. Thought.

Perhaps if I imagine myself like The Little Engine That Could-

“I think I can...I think I can...”

Up I go, slowly chugging up the hill of my writer’s block...or inability... Finally, reaching the crest, the pinnacle, the height of creative genius (-not egotistical at all-) and as I barrel down, screaming-

“I thought I could!....I thought I could!...”

Oh what a happy day that will be.

 

 

 

And though she be but little, she is fierce. – Shakespeare

A small short sentence that many times presents the best version of me. I haven't written on here in a long time despite having words that bubble up inside me like water coming to a boil. I felt the need to take a break, to grow and mature in how I present my life. There comes a point when verbal vomit is no longer an attractive quality, even to a communication major.

 Although there is the argument of if such a quality is ever attractive.

I have come back here many times wondering just what I can write. To spell out the changes in myself would be almost as liberating as to fly. Yet, just as clouds have no real definition to them it is the same with me. I am who I am. My dad's quote that resides at the top of this blog still, even to this day, 5 years later, rings true. Perhaps it is silly for me to have expected a sort of ending to "finding myself" but somewhere in the back of my mind I did. I kept having this picture that one day I would just wake up and find myself, all bright and wide eyed; with exactness that puts even the most minimalist to shame.

Of course, after a year and a half of growing up, I'm discovering just how immature that picture was. I realize now that the whole process of finding myself is a lifelong one because to my great relief, I will never remain the same person. Oh there are pieces of who I am that will be as unchanging as the moon in its phases. They will always be there but they will reflect differently depending on where am I.

I can't specifically pin point the exact catalyst for change over this past year but I know at some point it occurred. Perhaps it was the Father of Lights movie by Darren Wilson. Or the book 1000 Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully by Ann Voskamp. To put it into words makes it seem something trivial and non-transforming. I can’t help it though. There are moments that you must put on the blank canvas whether through words or some other form. It must be imprinted on this world, even if no one else can appreciate the meaning behind it.

Perhaps the catalyst is not the important factor.

Just, maybe, the important thing is the person I’ve become.

 A year and a half ago I spent so much time with tears and fear that they eventually began to think they could move in but, like a bear waking from hibernation, I woke up to the truth.

The truth that I am beautiful and not solely on the outside, I am beautiful in who I am, and that a lack of commitment does not signify me being less of a woman.

I began to learn about myself. The real me, not the me I presented to the world.

Even now, this renewal in blogging, it almost feels like I’m a debutante and this is my coming out ball.

Here I am- in all of my messy, frizzy self.

I try and fail. I prefer to be by myself for hours on end in the silence of my mind. I can read 400 page books in two days. My books are like my children. I want to write a book worth reading. I do not need a man to check my oil or tires or fill my tank. I can cook but don’t because it’s lame cooking for one. I don’t like to work out but will if it’ll help a sister out...literally. The thought of being a stay at home mom scares the crap out of me. I know that I am meant for something greater than just living a life for myself. I want to travel. I need to travel; it is so deep in who I am that I cannot separate myself from the dream. I sing, loud, in my car with the windows down. I almost never turn on my heater or air conditioner in said car. I don’t like to clean if it is expected of me. I can wait to get married but there are things I can’t wait to do with my future somebody- like dancing, kissing, sitting cuddled by a fire pit outside looking at the stars, walking down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and whispering late at night.

All silly things to point out and things that probably don’t separate me from anyone else.

Sometimes I do feel all dreams and no reality, all hopes and no action. As if I’m the rain without the rainbow. But the fact of the matter is that I am still just a bud, as cliché as that sounds. I may be turning 24 soon but, in the scheme of this mad world, I am, in many ways, just a child. I’m still experiencing things for the first time. And it is beautiful.

That first rent check? Liberating.

That first set of tires? I wanted to giggle.

The first real job? Strengthening.

The first time cleaning my house? I wanted to dance.

Simple things that don’t really mean much to those who have “gone before.” They are old things now to you. Simple things that have lost their appeal. And that’s ok. I know one day I’ll be the same.

But...

Let’s never lose the wonder and love of our new selves, no matter how much it gets watered down and muddled by life.