� 2001-2006 by Shiloh
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Once upon a time, when I was still very young and na�ve and a babe to the ways of the world, I knew no limitations or roadblocks to my dream of being a writer. I was going to write a mystery or fantasy, or a combination of both and one day have it published. But then as I was getting ready to test my wings and fly on my own, for the first time, reality was delivered like a firm slap to the face.
I was 18. My parents had set up an appointment with Vocational Rehab for us, a state-run program which helps the disabled with finances for college and helps them find a job after. In order to understand the client and to get to know him/her, the case worker naturally asks the typical questions: What do you like? What would you like to do?
"I like to write."
Here came the figurative slap to the face. The man shifted in his seat and a condescending air seemed to settle around his shoulders like a mantle. "A writer? You'd be better off in another profession. Writing is a hard profession. Not many people who set out to be writers get published. They don't realize the time, the discouragement involved or the dedication it requires. Many get rejected time and time again."
My shoulders slumped and inside my heart plummeted. I don't know what I expected to hear, but it wasn't an all-out denouncement and dismissal of my hopes and dreams. Perhaps an "A writer? That's nice. You must have good imagination," and then a realistic, yet encouraging talk on what it means and takes to be a writer. But not what I got, no. *sighs*
As is evidenced by this journal and by the intermittent poems and writing clips I've come up with, his...less than gracious, less than encouraging words...haven't stopped me. I'm still gonna work on being published. I'm still writing, and I know now it takes discipline, it takes time and dedication, it takes research and patience. Writing is a labor of love. A book, a song, a poem becomes your baby. It's a living, breathing process.
And right now, the brief times I can get on here to update are like stolen boons for me--if that makes any sense. Lately, I've a need to just write and write what I feel. Right now, writing is my outlet. My sanity. My only way to channel whatever creativity or jumble of emotions I've had to supresss inside, deep down.
I don't know when it all started. Perhaps it's a sign I'm ready to have my own space again. I dunno. Perhaps it's been the PMS that turned me into a bear for a week. Perhaps it's the cabin fever I've had that's finally reached its exploding point. Who knows, but lately I feel as if my motto should be that Spanish proverb: "A closed mouth catches no flies."
It seems like I can't open my mouth anymore without saying something stupid, something that irks someone, or something that is twisted for a battle of wits. (Yes, this last one is just to tease me, but I never win so it's lost its fun and humor.) And seems is the opperative word here. There really is no one to vent to. Heather is gone, Milo is busy with his duties at the Naval base in Florida and Nan, I can almost be certain, would in her own nice, Southern way tell me to just let it all go and buck up.
So that leaves writing. Pouring all my frustration, restlessness and irritation into words. Much safer than releasing it on some poor, hapless dude.
Speaking of which, this guy from Pakistan found me on MSN and any time I've been on in the past four days, he's talked to me. Since my time on this computer is limited I get right down to the business of checking email and seeing what's new here at Diaryland. I also go into noncomittal mode, and because I feel the clock ticking--especially now that the kids are home for the summer and are wanting the computer--I let the conversations become one-sided. I listen (or read), he talks or types. I also don't have much to say; I've been trying to keep my patience and all the other jumble of emotions I've been suppressing in check. My mind is full.
You are seeing the emotion when he's not, I guess. The other day he mentioned he felt like he was talking to a robot. He called me "Robotic Angel" because I was showing no emotion.
How ironic. Irritation quickly entangled with the knotted mass of emotion that was my insides. I felt far from emotionless. In fact, if you know me at all, you know I'm as emotional as they come when dealing with females.
Anyway, writing is my outlet...my passion.
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moon phase |
