I woke up this morning to find several inches of snow outside my bedroom window. After a long work week, a big blanket of white to cover everything is exactly what I hoped for on my long-awaited Saturday to sleep in and spend time alone. I’m wrapped in my grandmother’s afghan with a cup of tea as I watch it continue to fall. For the first time in a long while, I have time to sit and contemplate and write.
My writing dilemma of late has been this: reconciling myself to my imperfections.
A writer’s mistakes are always going to be there, in black and white, for everyone to see. That makes it hard for me to want to be completely honest, sometimes. And if I can’t be honest, I have a hard time convincing myself to say anything at all.
The potential for grammar, spelling and punctuation errors alone is embarrassing. When we write we have the added expectation of committing ourselves to an idea, a perspective, a way of seeing the world.
We’re arguing. We’re saying,
“This is my story and I’m sticking to it.”
And I hate being wrong. More than that, I’m emotional, sensitive and overly sentimental, which means I’m an argumentative basket-case that doesn’t know when to shut up. Great qualities for writing about something with passion. Horrible combination when I’m confronted about it.
With the advent of online writing tools like blogs and social media networks we have the option of controlling feedback to a certain extent. The delete button is always handy. It doesn’t erase memories, though. Moderating and filtering out the comments that you don’t want people to say about your work will only separate you from the moments meant to help you grow.
I’m learning these lessons the hard way. I’m learning through trial and error that I either write, make mistakes and attempt to right them, or I don’t write at all.
Writing is a constant process of coming to terms with what I am: a writer.
I bleed black and white.
I wear my heart on my page.