Last week, I dusted off this blog and wrote a post about all the running I’ve been doing recently. It seemed like a necessary way to cap off
a project that ended up meaning so much to my internal world.
After posting, in one of the endless ways I’ve been
distracting myself from other things I should be doing lately, I went down the
rabbit hole of my own writing and read a bunch of posts from all those years
ago, back when writing on this blog was one of the ways I saved my own life.
Looking back, I felt a flush of pride about who I was and
how I saw things (still am, still see). I also felt nostalgic for all
the grasping and searching I used to do (still do). And grateful that I wrote
it down because reading back on it is like flipping through a photobook of my
mind.
Back then, I would often feel anxious putting my thoughts
out there in the world for other people to read. What would they think? What if
it was stupid? What if no one even read it?
In the end (and this is something I suspected but didn’t
really care about at the time) the most important reader I could have is ME – now.
And me – years and years from now. It feels important to acknowledge
that (to myself).
I’m currently working on a novel. Did I ever tell you that?
I suppose that’s what made me stop blogging, back then. This project has taken
up most of my writing energy, in a good way.
I’ve been trickle-writing it for four years now (four!!!),
and it’s nowhere near being done.
But I’m still doing it.
Why?
Not for any delusions about publication. Not for some
imaginary future readers.
No – It’s for ME.
There have been frequent times when I’ve fought with myself
over this project, one side saying why bother, honestly. And the other
side stubbornly repeating because I’ve always wanted to.
Thankfully, I have a supportive writing teacher and feedback
group that help bolster that stubborn voice, and I’m optimistic that someday,
eventually, I’ll finish it.
It will be really something to hold the completed thing in
my hands.
But maybe more than anything, I’m curious about -- and
motivated by -- the experience of looking back on the process of writing this
novel. Of seeing how I’ve grown as a writer and a seer. Of noticing how I’ve
evolved as an observer of my mind and in my commitment to putting this story on
paper. Even from the middle of it, I can start to see some of the ways I’ve
grown.
I suppose in a lot of ways, writing, for me, is akin to running.
It’s more about the process than the product (though it’s certainly rewarding
to see the product unfold). It’s more about the journey than the destination (though
I’d like to get where I’m going as well).
Or maybe what I mean is – it’s okay for the product to
change over time or for the destination to end up being somewhere other than
what I first expected.
All this to say – maybe I’m not totally done with this blog.
Maybe there are more tracks I might want to lay down. We’ll see. But I know this for sure: I'm happy to be able to look back. And grateful for all the ways I can move forward.
