Second post

I hate writing because I’m afraid I’m incompetent and I have nothing to say of any value.

I hate writing, for my blog, in response to emails and in my journal, because it is difficult. It’s hard to think of what to say, how I want to say it and what do people want to hear. Reading, my writing, received emails and books, is much more enjoyable, passive and therefore effortless, and it’s a preferred way to spend my time. Putting forth effort when I’m unsure of the outcome is disagreeable to me.
It’s ironic that I spent thousands of dollars at a university “learning” how to write (fyi I’m no better for the time and money spent) and I’ve managed to convince many acquaintances that this is a passion and pursuit of mine.

When I feel obligated to write, which occurs multiple times a day because I feel obligated to update my blog, correspond to family and friends, and document my experiences and feelings, I wrestle with the idea, realize I don’t know what to write, and then turn to an easier option such as reading a book or watching a movie, usually accompanied by a consolation snack. “It’s ok, maybe you will think of something to say later. Perhaps this book will inspire great ideas and reveal personal insight. Indulge in the easier pastime and forget worrying about what you’re not doing because that won’t help the situation, says my internal rational”
I love reading and watching because I recognize others’ competence and insight and entertainment value.

In this manner I’ve plowed through eight books and almost two dozen movies in less than three weeks. On average I finish a book every other day and Kevin and I watch a new movie every night, plus I have watched a few during rainy afternoons. Because I’m constantly engrossed in characters’ lives my emotions and feelings are raw and confused. (Hence I never know what to write about because I can’t extract mine from my entertainers’. Fantasy and reality are overly intertwined in my mind and my spirit is suffocating on the confusion.)

When I read a story about a young girl who moves to Switzerland in pursuit of her dreams I feel I am lost in search of dreams that I can’t identify. “I want to move and act in chase of my dreams! But first, what are my dreams? And where do I need to move to discover them? ” My internal voice is a real worrier and she tends to stress…

Then later in the day I watch a movie about a couple brought together by destiny, separated by the world only to conquer all obstacles and finish their lives together in eternal love and happiness. “I need to find my true love that will produce endless joy in my life!” But then the next movie or book is about an independent artist who walks through the world to her own beat and discovers that only she can bring about contentment and meaning to her life. “Forget needing others. I’m an independent, competent person who doesn’t need to rely on anyone. Oh and I should get into art again.”

I hope I’m only this fickle below the surface.

The internal mayhem prevents me from personal understanding and therefore inhibits my ability to communicate (through my writing). How in the hell am I supposed to convey in worlds in some intelligible order the things I can’t sort out within myself. How can I communicate intimately without when I can’t figure out what’s going on within?

Good grief…thanks for hanging in there with me and enduring my personal struggles. Certain friends and family will find this bipolar and manic behavior familiar. And all can rest assured that this is only the workings of a moment. Now that I’ve hurled a few words onto paper (or screen) the wheels are greased for more. I usually have to throw a tantrum before I can settle into peaceful acceptance. The struggle of what to say remains but the freak-out of not knowing if what I say is good or if anyone will care is tapered off a bit.

I think I have to care way too much (and cry) before I can care an appropriate amount and move past my mania.