When I was a child– and even into my teens– I wanted to be a writer. The feedback from others was usually very good when I bothered to put pen to paper. That is until the J. O. B.
Most recently my writing has been deemed “cryptic” and as having the need for frequent revision. Creativity is frowned upon at the J.O.B. Whereas in a prior paid endeavor, I had gotten negative feedback for the use of “cut-and-paste” to finish a project on time– cookie cutter writing is expected by the J.O.B.
I have never been one for accolades. In fact in parenting, I tend to not praise for what I have expected to have been done already. The problem is when the critique to negativity occurs and there is never positive acknowledgment… Never. I look at my parenting and wonder if this is the case in my style as well. Alas, it is very downgrading.
Accolades, I need not… But recognition of the fact I am a thinking, feeling human would be nice once-in-a-while.
So, with my brain thwarted of any creativity I may have once had, I ask myself… “Do I have any stories to tell?”
Are there stories or just a series of random thoughts that tangentially tie my life into a not-so-pretty package? Words used to pour out in effervescent displays of sensory magic. I do not feel I have this anymore. I do not like the direction in which my life has gone.
I do not attend to this blog and neglect it as the great aunt who contacts for holiday. An outlet it needs to become… Of words. Words I may paint with a myriad of colors and shapes. It doesn’t have to be pretty as much as exercise. And who looks good when they first start an exercise program?
It doesn’t matter if I have stories to tell… I have words… I used to LOVE words.