I’m at a pivotal point in my life; I can feel it in my bones. “Something” is lurking out there, just beyond my cognitive thought, and I honestly don’t know if I’m being stalked by a vicious beast preparing to pounce, or if a loving friend is patiently waiting to gently nudge me in the right direction.
The way things have been going lately, I’m inclined to bet on the beast.
As I’ve said before, all my life I’ve wanted to write about big things, important things, things that would make people stand up and take notice. I’ve wanted to write on the cutting edge, pen stories filled with suspense, true thrillers, and heart-pounding drama.
But that’s not who I am. I’ve been a fluff writer since the day I was born, which is almost the same as saying I was born to be a fluff writer, only maybe not as limiting and not quite as constrained.
If you’ve always done something in a certain way, then I suppose you can say either you’ve happily found your niche, or that you’ve fallen victim to a particular paradigm.
So, if it were possible (which in itself is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish), should you, would you, could you—change?
Can a person just “decide” to dress differently? Dance differently? Speak differently? Write differently? For instance, could I start right here in this blog and get “down and dirty” by sharing the angst and fear and drama of my real life? Or would that be bordering on “too much information?”
I used to say I couldn’t do (or write) certain things “while Mom is still alive,” but she’s been gone for almost two years. So what’s my excuse now for holding back? Is it… fear?
A counselor friend once told me a person either lives in love or lives in fear. I know I have refrained from writing a few things here because I was “afraid” of what people might think. Toning myself down, I managed not to offend anyone, but as a result, on occasion I admit my writing fell into the category of hopelessly milquetoasty.
Whether the bottom line was “honest” writing or not, I kept from opening a vein and letting my true feelings flow out onto the page.
Oh, I’m not talking about some big exposé or “Mommy Dearest” type of thing—not at all! I’m talking about why I have often held back and not said what’s been in my heart and on my mind. It’s an interesting conundrum. I wonder how it’s going to play out.
“The Lady or the Tiger?” is a short story written in 1882, yet the allegory still strongly resonates with me. Will it be the beauty or the beast?