At times, I write out of guilt. That has to be a bad thing, right?
It’s a wasted emotion, an attachment to judgment, something endured by lapsed Catholics. Guilt is nothing but a filthy animal.
Truth is, I don’t really feel that way. Not at the moment.
How can I write from wasted emotion if guilt plants me in front of the keyboard? I love to write, even really bad stuff, even if I don’t really feel like it. I can say I love to write without hesitation (I’m sorry it took 63 words to get to it – whoops there I go again with that darned guilt). Writing is my passion and companion. Outside of my family and friends, writing is the biggest slice in my life. I have a novel that is somewhere between draft and done. At times I’m surprised by the words that become disguised by characters from my imagination, I envy the pages I have already revised, and I marvel in the progress I’ve made. And only one other person has read more than a chapter of it. I enjoy the process so much that when I step away for too long, disappointment draws me back. Why ration or ignore something that asks nothing but enjoyment from me? I shouldn’t. I should not. So I don’t.
If I am driven by fear from judgment, can it be all bad if I fear only a mirror when it is all said and done? When I proclaim my desire to be a writer (when I grow up), nobody in my circle doubts me. Nor do they hold me accountable to it. Pursuit of my goal is a win-win situation, whether I achieve the end-state or not. It’s actually not a bad place to be, if it weren’t for that guilt. It’s only my imagination, dedication, and commitment that can make me a writer. So I write, unsure and unconcerned about how many words it will take to get me there.
What brings you back to your passions when life gets in the way?