The Beginning of Always

I’ve always wondered what makes a writer a good writer. Arguing with myself never seemed to bring the answer about and truth be told, I’m still not really sure. In fact, at one point in time, I wondered if I could even call myself a writer. Sure, I’ve been scribbling in diaries since I was twelve and have ploughed my way through at least nine books, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything in the scheme of things.

Sure, I love to write. I remember writing my first story when I was 10, crouched over a scrappy notebook with one of those 2B pencils that left smudges along the outside of the wrist, embarrassedly hoping that no one would catch me and ask me what I was doing. I hid that first book for the longest time and I’m still a little embarrassed about it now. I don’t even let my own parents read my material; there is something to be said about the deep shame that comes from producing a “child” that feels both illegitimate and unjustified. I suppose it is only this love that has kept me going at it for so long.

But in every so-called writer’s heart, there is also another dream, apart from the one that entails putting thoughts and feelings down on paper, apart from purging the soul in a process sometimes more painful than cathartic. We all want to be read. To be acknowledged for the hours that we have spent struggling over the carefully crafted sentences and the (not so) well-placed verbs and nouns. To be acknowledged for the idea.

So, I guess this blog is about the closest I’m going to come to being published in a long, long while, if at all. For nearly ten years, I’ve fought with the urge to stand on my soapbox and read my diaries aloud even with the knowledge of the consequences.
And finally, I’ve lost.

A very dear friend tells me that she approves of this new move, that she would like to know what goes on in my head. Supposing I disappoint her and fail her expectations? Where would one go from there? It’s a little like not making an audition, I suppose, that skill that you’ve been building up to all these years ends up being something you should never have invested in after all.
But that doesn’t mean you don’t try, either.
So I’m going to try to be a writer, the way I’ve always hoped I might be.
Sure, I’m really scared. But it has to be done sooner or later, before this last surge of Dutch courage deserts me. If it’s bad, at least no one will read it. And if it’s good… well, a girl can hope.

Besides, I figure blogging is a bit like singing in the shower. It won’t affect those who don’t hear it, and those who do hear it must be pretty durn close to you anyway.