Booking It

I love to write.  I don’t know what it is about it exactly.  I think I feel like I can communicate better that way.  More successfully, I guess I should say.  I’m much easier to understand on paper.  I can edit and re-edit until I convey the message I want the way I see or hear it in my head.  If only I could do that in actual conversation.  Lord knows I could use a do-over button.  But with writing I can tweak and change and reword until it’s exactly how I want it before I release it into the wild.

Blogging has been fun because I get to vent.  It’s short and sweet, but I can bear it all if I want.  I can blog about whatever catches my interest, even writing.   Or randomness, like this appears to be.  I never had any interest in writing for a newspaper or anything like that.  I don’t like conforming enough to 1) work for someone else that way or 2) change my writing style or subject to suit an audience.  I can write whatever I want here and you can read it or not, that’s on you.  But it eases a need I have to speak my mind when I write one of these.  And with blogging I get immediate feedback.  I can immediately tell if it sucks or not by how people react.  There’s nothing like the feeling of writing from your heart and getting a ton of positive feedback.

I never considered myself to be creative or artistic.  But the past year has shown me a side of myself I had forgotten.  The need to create something useful is overwhelming some days.  From essential oil products to blog posts to decals to t-shirts.  Something about seeing something in my head and then making it a reality is very satisfying.  It’s a constant learning curve…I’ve screwed up a lot along the way.  But that’s part of the draw I think.  Striving toward a goal and attempting to perfect it over time.  There’s always one more little thing I could do to make it better than the last time.  Some days it almost drives me insane.  I think of a million different changes I want to make or another way I can do something and I obsess over it until I can get home.  I’ve heard people talk about painting that way…that they have to get it out before they can rest.  Some of these blog posts were that way for me.  I woke up early or late and couldn’t rest until I got it all out.

Some days I really think about writing a book.  Just sitting down and starting something long term.  What?  I have no clue.  All of my experiences and stories are so disjointed, it would almost have to be fiction.  Pretty sure at this point I could write a killer romance novel.  That would be interesting for everybody.  But could I deal with spending so much time pouring into something over a long period of time to have it fail?  With a blog or a decal, if I don’t like it or you don’t like it, I can do it again or delete it.  It took me an hour or two of time tops.  But a book…that’s a long term commitment with no exit strategy if it bombs.  Not sure I’m strong enough for that kind of pressure.  Would striving for perfection in something that big actually push me over the edge of insanity?  Possibly.  But I just keep thinking, what if?

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