I always felt that my life was meant to be more than it was. And at times I have felt that I’m wasting away, waiting around for some magical moment that would rock my world and change everything about me for the better. The dream job would fall at my feet, that promotion would just be handed over, and all of a sudden I would have a rediculous amount of free time to catch up on all my unfinished projects. And none of that free time would ever be wasted.
This magical moment is like my own personal version of Alice in Wonderland. I was always waiting for the white rabbit to lead me down a trail to my glorious and mysterious destination. The place where everything fit perfectly and I knew, without question, who I was and where I was supposed to be going.
But my white rabbit hasn’t come and I don’t see him bouncing across my path any time soon. I see plenty of a particularly beatup, ragged, fuzzy yellow bunny of course, which frequently dangles from my 5 year old’s hands when she’s tired, sad, or scared. But that white magical rabbit, who’s supposed to fully reveal my magical fairy tale, has yet to show up. Damn him. And damn all the fairy tales I read growing up that made me think that life was going to magically offer me some sort of grand prize, like a prince charming or a white horse. Or a brandnew Lexus… I digres…
So what do I do now. There are lots of things I think I might like to do, it’s getting there that’s the hard part. I frequently ask myself what I’m good at and sadly nothing sticks out. The only thing I know for certain is that I like to write. When i find myself in a moment of writing something good and the writing doesn’t stop, it just pours out of me like an endless jug, that’s when I feel excited-That’s when I feel magical. I’m so excited and yet so afraid to stop that i don’t even look at the errors and missing letters my fingers have forgotten to push down along the way. They can be fixed later, the thoughts and ideas can’t.
I wrote a lot of short stories in college and did fairly well in class. I also took a few journalism classes and really enjoyed feature pieces where I could fully dissect a topic. I would research the shit out of my stories, find the quotes I needed and place them in the article, just right, as if each word held a tiny cord to the reader’s heart. And with each quotation, the reader continued to dive into my story, awaiting it’s highly anticipated conclusion. Or so I hoped.
Writing has always felt magical and as a kid I frequently kept journals to collect poems, doodles, or sometimes a spy note or two on the few occasions when I thought i could become Hilary The Spy or Ghost Writer. I even put together a newspaper with a neighbor. We drew pictures and wrote our stories about mysterious in the area (completely made up of course).
In high school, I had a few of my stories featured in the school paper. I also blogged over the years off and on while I was a stay-at-home mom. I logged the joys of motherhood and the pains. I never caught a huge crowed but there were a few posts every once in a while that caught an audience and led to some good comments. Those few moment always left me with a little bit of a writers high. But blogging never panned out the way I had hoped, i looked googly-eyed onward at the many women paving the way in the blog-sphere and felt incredibly inadequate. With the beautiful pictures, tips, and all around cutesy quick-witted comments they were always ready and able to spit up, I struggled to believed that I belonged.
Then there were the friends and family I hoped would show some support but rarely showed up. It all made my innercritice ring continuously in my ears: “What the fuck am I doing this for? No body gives a shit…”
This is when I wish that white rabbit showed up and reminded me to keep going. I mean, I have kept going, but not consistently enough. I try for a month or two and then let myself get caught up in everything in life that makes you spin your wheels and feel overwhelmed.
So now I wonder, what if I had kept going over the years? perhaps I wouldn’t be the writer that I’ve always fantasized that I would be, but at least my writing would be stronger. And what if this time I didn’t let writing slip through the cracks for the upteenth time. What if I wrote more. What if I tried to write those stories I’ve always wanted to tell?