This morning the boys are out with some other guys from church being manly (eating a fry up and pottering over the downs). The flat is full of sunshine and cool breezes from the open windows. In about half an hour a friend is coming over for brunch and I shall be able to talk without a small squirming thing to keep an eye on. I’m sitting at the new desk my Dad built for us. Sadly the very lovely old writing desk had to go to make way for this new upgrade which is better suited to our purposes and possible future computer options. For now it’s a sleek space to store helpful office things and a smaller space to sit at and write. For that is what I shall do here.
I’ve found myself all too often in the last few weeks being uber jealous of others book deals, writing opportunities, ability to communicate over the internet about big things and build up audiences etc. The time has come to stop being jealous, stop comparing with others, stop worrying about how many people find my thoughts wonderful and get on with being me, here in this space. I’ve come to the conclusion that once more I must find time to write because, as I’m coming to own, I am a writer. I process my thoughts through words typed on a screen. I am a writer. I don’t want to write to impress others, to proclaim my profound thoughts to all and sundry, to think more highly of myself than I ought. I want to write because it’s fundamental to who I am, as much as my love of deep conversations that swim the depths, as much as my delight in cups of tea, as much as my love of standing on top of mountains and dancing for joy.
I write, I write, I write. And this weird old world of the internet means that others can join in the conversation and know that they too are not alone in these thoughts, ideas and ponderings of life.
I write because I have always written, from poems and thoughts when younger, to meandering introspective journals as a teenager and student (thank God that the internet was still in it’s slow down when America gets online and geocities are cool phase when I was at Uni) to the world of blogging which I’ve been doing for 8 years on and off now. I write because if I don’t my head goes crazy and I forget the lessons I should recite over and over until they stick. I write because I want to know that I am not the only one. I write because I cannot articulate these thoughts verbally. I write because I must.
I’ve been gradually realising this over the years. I wrote this a while ago which says all I’m trying to say:
She was always a wordsmith. Always a writer, Always someone who wanted to put things down in words. To write. To see that words can sometimes express, pull into the light and wash down ideas concepts truths and reality. To see from different angles, to express all these thoughts that swirled around her head.
She’d always been a writer. And wanted to see if others might benefit from these thoughts, from the way she expressed the old old story, from identifying with the struggles and joys of walking through this life.
So there you go, nothing new here, just a marker along the way to say, yes I must write. I must make space in these crazy weeks to sit at this desk and press fingers to keys to create.
(Future Kath- are you listening? Have you done this? I know you are my most avid reader so seriously, if you haven’t, go now, make a call, get someone to look after the boy for a couple of hours and write dammit.)
Oh and many thanks to my wonderful Dad for making this space possible, and encouraging my weird poetry all those years ago, making me think that what was inside me was worth reading.