I didn’t have to speak; the mare read the stories in my eyes and she just knew. I fed her carrots and we talked without words while the sun set over the Kansas sky.
She sensed my struggles: stressful situations with the kids, a recent breakup, my scary basement, taxes, anxiety over several things beyond my control, and the general malaise and feeling of failure caused by parenting.
I was writing in my head. I’m always writing in my head, with Fear sitting next to me, grabbing my arms, leaning close, and whispering wickedly in my ear:
“You don’t have anything worthwhile to say.”
“Look out, you never know who might be reading this…”
“No one blogs anymore, anyway.”
“You’re not a real writer.”
Well, fuck that shit. I’m here to write. And though I may not be able to share my kids’ stories (those are for them to tell someday), I have plenty of my own.
I’m reminding myself that writing is a practice, like anything else. If I don’t practice, I won’t get better. I will stagnate. Just as I return to the barre to work out several days each week, stretching my legs and easing into a split (no way, just kidding, I can’t do a split! But maybe one day?), I will come back here and tell my stories.
I am committing myself to one story (or something) a week. It should be an easy enough goal. Like old school blogging. I miss that connection, the way things were. I don’t even know if it exists anymore. Regardless, it’s something I need to do for myself. I don’t care if anyone reads it.
This is something I have to do for me.
Because I’m a writer.