Frustration

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I know I’m not the only one who wrestles all the time with who I am.  We have all these views of ourselves — positive, negative, indifferent … one day, I am superwoman, doing it all and making everyone happy. The next day I am a spiritual vagabond, hiding in a corner of my house and heart, venomously striking out at everyone and anyone who wanders a bit too close.

It’s our human condition, right?

So I pick up a new-to-me author. I like his stuff. It’s not edifying or holy; quite the contrary, he bills it as NSFW because of the language, but it’s guttural, fast-moving and filled with interesting plot twists and turns. It has characters that are beautiful and repulsive all in the same paragraph. I can’t figure it all twenty pages in, which is how so much fiction is nowadays. I’ll link to his stuff here, as long as no one decides to be my Jimminy  Cricket and tell me why I shouldn’t like his stuff (http://terribleminds.com/ramble/blog/)

I want to write “like that.” OK, maybe not JUST like that, but I want to write real and gutsy and bold and stop worrying about how someone in my sphere of real life will judge me or my family or my faith or whatever because of what I write in my fiction. I want to stop being afraid of the ramifications of my writing on real life. The answer, of course, is to go underground with a pseudonym and write away. Create a fictitious on-line persona that won’t tie to “real life.” I wish it wasn’t that way, but too many people think they “know” what I should and shouldn’t do because of my husband’s profession or how I should somehow conform to the comfort level inside their little boxes. This is my desire.

How do I act on it? What do I do? Make dinner. Do dishes. Blog. Anything to avoid actually WRITING anything at all. I fill my days with activities — good activities — things that make the people I love happy and those who stand around me looking in … I don’t know.

I say it all doesn’t matter. But I’m a liar.

See, the “good” things in my life need maintenance and they are time-consuming and hard work. I try to tell myself it’s a “season,” that there will come a day quicker than I realize, that I will have “time to …” whatever. But I’ve come to the realization that I’m probably just intellectually lazy when it comes to my writing. Afraid of failure, afraid of success, afraid to expose my inside for fear of rejection or of disturbing the “status quo” which is the residing monarch in my neck of the woods.

And all it would take was for me to make a freaking decision to be true to what is in my head and heart. But then the wrestling match begins, and I think about the “what if’s,” and wish for a world where I could really write what’s inside my head, damn the torpedos and full speed ahead.

I know. The answer is to “just do it.” But it’s a whole lot easier said than done. Part of the problem is, again, that proverbial human condition. The one that says, “Well, EVERYONE has stuff they can’t do because it’s NOT RIGHT.” (emphasis on words that are used to manipulate and “say” things without really explaining anything). There are people in this world who act, and there are people in this world that talk. Most of us are both — we act on certain things, we talk about other things, and we spend our time in the middle being beaten to death by the desires and the realities of it all in our journey. And like Job’s friends, there are plenty in the crowd who have determined they have the answers for US, while somewhere deep inside themselves it’s a ruse to avoid dealing with their own stuff.

And you know who you are.

So, today’s entry is simply stating the obvious: I need to decide what I’m going to do. I can’t have it all — no one can. I’m frustrated and fearful and emboldened and frozen. And I want to break free … but I don’t quite have the courage I need.

Today is just one of THOSE days.

Now off to make dinner, and go watch high school basketball, both of which are good things … great parts of my life … and definitely the easy choices right now.

 

 

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