I am struggling over what to write.
Hounded by doubts I worry I am self-indulgent. I am being pretentious to imagine anyone finds value in my observations.
Recently a couple of friends, who’s opinions I greatly value, said they like my posts that are less inwardly focused, which I take to mean, more focused on things that are relatable to other people’s lives.
I’mcommitted to writing about myself, first person here. For a moment I wasn’t sure what to write.
The moment passed.
I am sure. I must use these pages to make sense of what I experience. I will ignore my doubts, remind myself I do not force anyone to read what I write.
I write because what comes out from my brain to my fingers, to the keyboard, to my iPad, often surprises me. It is as if there’s circuit that goes around my consciousness, delivering a different perspective on my world.
I have likened the process to golfing, a sport in which I do not engage. Mediocre golfers can play eighteen holes, hitting poorly, losing balls in the woods, so forth, and so on. In the middle of their round, however, they may make one perfect shot. The combination of the right club, the swing, the sound of the club head connecting with the ball, sending it sailing the perfect distance.
It is that one shot that keeps golfers coming back for more. Writing is no different.
I’m still in the learning curve in marketing my work. I’ve sold three essays on blogmutt.com. For better or worse, I think the platform is more distraction than anything. Writing marketing blurbs isn’t honing my writing skills, and the compensation is just not worth my time.
Meanwhile, I am waiting to see if Elephant Journal buys my rewrite. As soon as I finish this blog I’ll polish a short story for a contest I am entering looking for creative writing under 1000 words.
If you enter and win, don’t tell me. Shorter Short Fiction
In a conversation I had with the young poet I met at Union Station last week, we were talking about the marketing of our art. I talked about the distinction between my autobiographical writing, grounded in my observations versus my fiction, in which I create my own universe.
This may be an opportunity for me to still find compassion for myself. I discount the validation I receive from observational writing. It is one thing to write about the world around oneself. The golden ticket, I seem to feel, is in the satisfaction selling my fiction provides.
I recognize this perspective is somewhat irrational but for now that’s how it feels.
Stay in touch. Connect.
P.S. The Anais Nin quote above, is a screen shot from my iPad. Since I mentioned I write my posts on it I figured why not?
P.P.S. What a surprise…