I started reading a blog today that I think may have liberated me. So to speak. Or at least got me to acknowledge that I try too hard.
How does one try too hard to be authentic? Isn’t that something like space folding in on itself? It just sounds weird.
But all things considered, I think Boo Mama may have brought this girl a little bit of freedom that I didn’t even know I needed. And I’ve gotta tell you, I’m feeling pretty appreciative at the moment.
So here I sit with a few things to think over with regard to my writing, and my voice that comes through my writing.
For starters, I worry too much about measuring up to other bloggers. Yes, I know the Sunday School lesson about not comparing, about seeing myself for who I am and not worrying about anybody but me. “I know that, Gump!” But comparing is a hard habit to break, I’m here to tell you.
I’ll have some time tonight to sit and ponder all this since Steve and I are having an evening in to hang out just the two of us and, well, just be.
I love those evenings. And I’m not sure if I love them more, or less, when I’ve got a whole passel of things doing jumping jacks in my noggin. Dadgum, but it’s crowded in here!
Speaking of oddities jumping around in my head, an observation that has me a little baffled is the way some kids grow up and suddenly forget everything they know about the two people who raised them, treat them like a couple of aliens. Hello? Remember me? I’m the one who sat by your side mopping your forehead while your fever raged, the one who bailed your butt out of the fire when you didn’t have the money you needed for such-and-so. I’ve always been here, always been trustworthy, always had your best interest at heart, always been me, always given you all of me and then some. I mean, I know you’re a grownup now, but frackination! Remember me?!?
But I digress. Sort of.
Back to finding my “authentic voice”, if such a thing even exists. If I have one, what does it ‘sound’ like? Is it the quaking little kid afraid of her own shadow hiding from bullies in grade school? Is it the wildly busy mama dashing from one kid need to the next so dazed I almost missed my own 30th birthday? Is it the strong, confident woman I felt like when I turned 40? Or is it the hormonal, pensive dreamer who has only discovered she loves painting about the time she’ll slap 50 upside the head?
In the words of my beautiful little daughter at 18 months old watching preschoolers toddle onto the stage in white tutus, “Mama, which one is me?”
The one thing I know for sure is that I don’t know for sure. And that I am stinkin’ determined to figure it out.