It Takes Courage

I've been bumming around on Shannon Hale's blog, and got a bonus when I read a whole series of posts written by guest authors on the topic "Stories For All" (raging against gender separation in book lists and recommendations - fascinating and important topic).  All of these writers, whether professional authors or booksellers or teachers or librarians, wrote so confidently.  I've noticed that a lot in Shannon, and now I saw that trend in each of them.  No apologies.  No excuses.  Politely and respectively putting forward their opinion, but doing it with no reservations.

This is not me.  In fact, this is the biggest thing keeping me from being a writer.  Or speaking up in conversations.  Or having an opposing opinion.

I tend to apologize for myself about a lot of things, both important and unimportant.  I'm sorry I'm not classy enough.  I'm sorry I'm too classy.  I'm sorry that I am "only" a mother and don't have anything extra or interesting on top of that.  I'm sorry that I wish for something more and am not satisfied with what being "just" a mother has brought me.  I'm sorry for doing too much, too little, being sulky, being happy, dressing up, dressing down, thinking left, thinking right, not knowing enough, knowing too much, being too picky, not having an opinion.  You name it, I've apologized for it, either in my head or in a flippant verbal comment.

When I want to write a story inside me, I have all sorts of fears about not saying things the right way or making the right decisions about what happens in the story.  I know it's going to make someone unhappy.  And even though I'm intelligent enough to know that I can't make everyone happy all the time, that doesn't keep my spirit from wanting to.

Plus, I'm comfortably wrapped up in an image of me, and writing down on paper words that have only existed in my head and heart is like yanking off that blanket and letting people see me in spandex. (Not naked, not quite.  There's always more they don't see.)  (And spandex is bad enough.  There's a reason I don't wear spandex.)

I think this is why the only times I give myself permission to write is when I write for no one but me to see.  There are times when a story has been in my head long enough that I get too achy and itchy and I have to spill some of it out of me.  But even then, I notice myself writing cautiously, my thoughts occasionally flitting to an outside perspective on my piece.  *sigh*  That's exhausting.

I wonder how to overcome this kind of problem.  The me yet to be is brave and unafraid of critique because I know every piece is critiqued, no matter how good or bad.  Writing, speaking, living should all be done just for the joy of it, not for the observation of others.  How sad I'd be to let a dozen dreams die without seeing light just because I acted out of fear, not joy.  I want to seek joy.