Julia Cameron says something to the effect that all creative types are insecure about the value of their work. They are ready to doubt, to tear themselves down, to be the crazy grounds keeper blowing up the gopher holes from whence their ideas crawl. Given this, those of you in this same boat, sharing this oar with me, and staring at the looming iceberg-infested waters ahead may understand why I am spinning in circles and second-guessing this endeavor: starting a blog about my writing.
Why have I done it? What could I possibly add to the vast numbers of writer-blogger-aspirants who have gone before? Why am I not going to just delete this dang thing?
Well, maybe I will. But after a few brain cells sacrificed themselves to chase down internal truths, I realized that if I don't have a specific place to make notes about my writing thoughts, they drain out through the cracks along the scoodgy (take that, proper English!) bottom of my brain pan along with all the other muddy gunk and fine-ground debris. Most of them aren't big enough flakes to catch and hold on through the chaos-laden confusion of my workday. And if they do manage to remain, coming home to three dogs and a whiny cat who all need attention means a shift of gears (my brain's gear shifts are pretty rocky; I'm expecting the transmission to fall out any day now) that dislodges them.
I'd like to think that maybe my experiences and babblings about this process--of learning, of writing--might have some value to others who are tempted to give it a try, so I'd like to see them saved, even if only for my own reflections down the road. Maybe they're not flakes of gold; maybe people who read this (if ANYONE does) will come back complaining that they're only gold-plated, or, worse, tarnished brass. Or plastic with that shiny gold coating on them like the fake ring you bought for your mom at the grade school holiday gift sale because you were too young to think of anything else, only you realized in time that it really sucked and you squirreled it away at the bottom of a drawer because you were ashamed of it.
Well, I guess blogging means that you're not squirreling it away, unless hiding it in plain sight in a sea of other blogs just like it counts. Some glutton for punishment can always come along with a backhoe and unearth your dusty collection of nuts. Maybe they'll even find a gold ring in there, hidden away, and realize that it's not fake or crappy after all. So we all hope.
Why Second World Writings? Because my mom told me when I was about eight (and ten...and twelve...and fifteen...and twenty-eight, most likely, she said it a lot) that I was living more in my own little world than the real one. It's true. I'm pretty comfy here. So if I'm going to write a fantasy blog about me being a real live writer, I may as well write it from the seat of my make-believe world. It feels just about right.
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