I want to write. It's what I've wanted for a long time. I've never felt that I have any good original ideas. I love to read, but is that enough to make me a good writer? Does a witty facebook status update or two indicate some hidden potential? In the 9th grade, when my English teacher Ms. Higgs told me she saw "glimmers of greatness" in my poetry, should I have taken it to heart? Because I did, and in the background of my cluttered mind and messy life, there it has sat, waiting to be released. This is the worst possible time in my life to attempt such a big, grand, new thing. I'm homeschooling my son and potty-training my daughter, who never ever ever sleeps. When I so much as think about sitting at the computer to complete any sort of task, I am needed immediately. When will I do this writing, this writing that is overboiling in the pot on the back burner of my cluttered mind and messy life? Maybe it'll come out now. I don't know.
I want to write. I want to write something that matters. Something that makes someone happy. Something that takes someone out of their cluttered minds and messy lives and gives them a brief respite from their own insanity. Maybe it will restore their faith in humanity, or give them a chuckle, as they realize that their cluttered minds and messy lives are a BEAUTIFUL intricate tapestry that affects others so deeply they have no idea.
Can I write something like that? I don't know.
Am I crazy? Perhaps. Just putting this out there in the universe. It's time to let this idea fly.
