I miss being creative. I miss putting a value on my creative output. From age 12 to 21 I wrote thousands of pages of short stories and poetry. Then I ‘grew up’. I stopped writing unless there was a specific reason.
Dignity is a word which provokes a lot of discussion when I have my work hat on. It’s about the value someone else places on your worth. I don’t place any value on my creative worth so I don’t give it my time, thoughts or energy; I don’t deem it to be of value. I don’t treat that side of me with dignity or respect.
When my eldest was born we moved into a tiny ground floor maisonette with loud, round the clock, neighbours. To fit into the maisonette and into my new role of “Mummy” I threw away the years of stories and poetry I wrote, keeping only one folder of the ‘good’ or ‘commerical’ bits. I rarely read through them and mostly were written without an audience in mind plus quite honestly, weren’t very good. So out they went.
But now each time I sit to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard I remember the reams of paper I threw out and doubt the value of my output.
Like most people I would like to be acclaimed, be published, be a ‘proper writer’ but (again honestly) I struggle to dress myself most days, let alone regularly write my blog, and I reserve any energy I have for my Little Ones. With that in mind I simply want to write again, to feel that part of my brain to fizz and tang like fizzy cola bottles on the tongue. I want to do what I enjoy and prioritise it over slouching mindlessly on the sofa in front of the TV.
Today I finally finished watching ‘House of Cards’ and would usually be searching Amazon,Netflix and YouTube for my next set of programmes to passively absorb and mark the passing of time in my days. But what if I don’t pick another box set? What if instead I wrote or blogger or read? I reckon I could do that. I know I would be happier if I did that. I wonder if I can.


One thought on “Honestly

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