I think I was born in the wrong error.
I’ve been talking with several people I know lately about writing through the mess, tossing aside the masks, getting down to the real. Welp, you can believe me when I say my journal has gotten a workout.
How many more times, God? How many? Am I just that thick-headed? How many times do I have to go down this road before I get it? Am I that much of a glutton for punishment, or am I just stupid?
I’m always grateful for my journal, for the beautiful leather-bound invitation to grab a pen and be myself. I’ve seldom been more myself than I have lately. Whatever that means.
I’m doubting that I will ever publish a book. I’m doubting that I even want to any more. I’m questioning a lot right now. I have some major decisions to make, but I want to make them from a place of peace, a place of resolution and not chaos and hurt. I suppose I can at least be grateful I have the presence of mind to recognize that, and beyond that to articulate it.
Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.
Well, that’s a relief. I’ll be watching with interest to see what my soul comes up with.
I will never stop writing, until God stills my fingers. I’m just not sure any more that the end goal for me is a book. I’m not sure what the end goal for me is at all, but I will always write as long as I have fingers and a few brain cells.
It could be that I’m just supposed to help other people write. Maybe I was born to be a supporting actor. If so, then I pray for the grace to embrace that without complaint.
In “The Holiday”, Iris said, “You’re supposed to be the leading lady in your own life, for God’s sake!” I suppose I still am the star of my own life, but it just might be that my shine won’t be quite as brilliant as I once thought. Or hoped. Or dreamed about as a far-too-innocent little girl. I need to be okay with that.
I think I am.