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Posts Tagged ‘confusion’

I have a confession to make to you.

I am having a love affair. A passionate, toe tingling, heart-wrenching love affair.

I have all the usual ‘being in love’ symptoms. That slightly ill feeling. Random transitory moods of weepiness alternated with extreme euphoria which I can’t quite verbalise. Obsessive thoughts and lying awake at night thinking about the source of my affection, what I want to say to them running round and round my head in an endless loop. An overwhelming, raging guilt at my neglect of my family, friends and the housework in favour of my new love. Paranoia (maybe they don’t love me back, maybe I’m not good enough!), and taking every single fleeting opportunity to sneak away and dirty myself in its embrace.

I should probably explain (and quick before my husband reading this at work falls off his chair).

It’s not another man. It’s this damn writing business.

I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s all I want to do. All. The. Time. God I’m a little sweaty just sitting here typing. I almost cried with relief when Kai decided he was tired and needed a nap. Just so I could sit and fire up the laptop with shaky hands and blissfully tap out some words.

Is there a Writers’ Anonymous group or something? Cause I think I need a referal.

*sigh*

But that’s the problem. That’s what’s making me weep into my keyboard and mope about like some pretentious, post-modern artiste with a floppy fringe and leggings and a wistful look. I’m NOT a writer. I don’t even pretend to be. I have no experience of it. In fact, this blog (and couple of others on various topics peppered about the bloggosphere) are the sole fruits of my writing efforts.  

But, but, BUT! I think I want be… or at least… oh I don’t know.

I’ve seen you fellow bloggers. In you ‘About Me’s. You list yourselves as writers, or freelancers, or ex-copy writers, or editors or whatever. And I internally seethe. At your confidence, your skill, your experience. Or even worse – you DON’T put ‘writer’ in your intro but instead scream it with every glorious, perfectly constructed, flawless entry.

I bet you have perfect hair and shiny teeth too. And tidy houses. I just know it. Oh how I hate you.

Except I don’t of course. Because I secretly love you. Love your lives, love your talent and your creativity. It’s what brings me back to your blogs over and over, leaving hesitant, unsure comments, or not doing so and slinking off unobseved because all I can think of to say is “I wish I could write something so beautiful”.

How did you get where you are? Where does a mummy blogger with appalling spelling and not one creative writing course to her name even begin? What is it I even want? What does this annoying internal yearning mean?

I guess I just have to write. ‘Writer’ seems an accolade I am a very long way from deserving. But I guess everyone has to start somewhere and I think maybe here is ‘it’. And hopefully I’ll figure out what what the hell it is I’m looking for and what I want to write about along the way.

God this is all sounding very pretentious isn’ it? I’ll stop now…

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