Maybe not so many of you know that I have this personal blog. My relationships with writing any kind of prose went a long way from crying and begging for mom's help with essay standing on my knees, to the only real way to express my thoughts, emotions, feelings. No, it doesn't make me a great writer now, but some people do think I'm not terrible at it. That's how this blog was started, first in Russian, and then maybe still not in a very perfect but English. And no I'm still not a famous blogger, but some people read what i write and writing makes me feel better, so win win situation.
A couple of months ago my husband told me that he read my blog and actually liked it, he thought i should keep writing. He said he could feel everything I was writing about. Isn't it what all the writers are trying to achieve? Make the reader feel. I smiled. It was never my goal, but it did make me warm inside. He asked why I didn't write anymore. My last big posts dates November 2017. Honestly I didn't have an answer at the time. Something about no-one reading it anyway, and something about smaller instagram posts was all I could come up with. "You should write for yourself, it makes you who you are, it makes you feel better! You should keep writing." - he said.
That conversation keeps replaying in my mind every time I have an urge to write. But then something stops me. I could not figure it out. Until now. I only write about stuff that emotionally affects me in a good or a bad way. It could be a beautiful park or unfair work situation, could be happy moments of my or someone else's life, could be war or broken relationship. Maybe part of the reason why my school life was a nightmare every time I had to write essay on a topic or why I could never be a good journalist. Can't write about stuff I could care less about.
To be honest, 2018 was kind of a blur: complicated and painful first third of it, very interesting with self-discoveries second third of it, and 'omg' the end of it. Sometimes I had no time to think about everything that was going on, not talking about writing about it. But that would still not be a very true answer to the question why I stopped writing. The true and very honest answer would be fear. Yep, as simple as it is. I was afraid to jinx it, I was afraid that once I put it in writing it's all going to disappear. I guess, I've been hurt and betrayed to many times not to learn the lesson that the happiness prefers silence. Who can blame me? Is it too sad that as complicated as my life might have been for the past couple months I realize that I'm very happy and terrified that it's maybe too good to be true and someone can take it all away.
To write or not to write? That's still the question...
A couple of months ago my husband told me that he read my blog and actually liked it, he thought i should keep writing. He said he could feel everything I was writing about. Isn't it what all the writers are trying to achieve? Make the reader feel. I smiled. It was never my goal, but it did make me warm inside. He asked why I didn't write anymore. My last big posts dates November 2017. Honestly I didn't have an answer at the time. Something about no-one reading it anyway, and something about smaller instagram posts was all I could come up with. "You should write for yourself, it makes you who you are, it makes you feel better! You should keep writing." - he said.
That conversation keeps replaying in my mind every time I have an urge to write. But then something stops me. I could not figure it out. Until now. I only write about stuff that emotionally affects me in a good or a bad way. It could be a beautiful park or unfair work situation, could be happy moments of my or someone else's life, could be war or broken relationship. Maybe part of the reason why my school life was a nightmare every time I had to write essay on a topic or why I could never be a good journalist. Can't write about stuff I could care less about.
To be honest, 2018 was kind of a blur: complicated and painful first third of it, very interesting with self-discoveries second third of it, and 'omg' the end of it. Sometimes I had no time to think about everything that was going on, not talking about writing about it. But that would still not be a very true answer to the question why I stopped writing. The true and very honest answer would be fear. Yep, as simple as it is. I was afraid to jinx it, I was afraid that once I put it in writing it's all going to disappear. I guess, I've been hurt and betrayed to many times not to learn the lesson that the happiness prefers silence. Who can blame me? Is it too sad that as complicated as my life might have been for the past couple months I realize that I'm very happy and terrified that it's maybe too good to be true and someone can take it all away.
To write or not to write? That's still the question...
