I actually am a writer.

At a certain age, I developed the belief that being a writer was kin to being clever. I likened it to being as powerful as God; with the creating worlds with words and all. At an even earlier age I learned that a person can evoke with words in negative ways just as easily as they can with sugary flowery concoctions of verbiage or the poignantly beautiful stuff. 

An obvious concept: It all has impact so be careful with your words.

When I discovered writing/journaling/reading, it was absolutely an outlet for me as a young girl. It was the best outlet I could have ever had. I can certainly say I was holding a lot within. I'd had a lot of experiences that I didn't know what to do with. I hadn't learned or understood how to identify my own feelings. When I learned to write writing was my chance to dissect all the...things. Writing allowed me to write and scream, and cry, and mourn everything I would never say or even mildly articulate to anyone aloud. I could simultaneously explore all my avenues of thought that felt so stifled or shuttered. Writing in my youth was the foundation for me having a voice in my adulthood. 

In many instances I was coming of age in a familial culture where children were seen and not heard. As an adult with perspective, I would actually say children, in general, were an afterthought in the wreckage of "adult" business and choices when it came to most of the households I lived in. In the end I wrote some very raw and troubled emotional tirades on paper as I came of age and it permanently changed some of my relationships. It was the catalyst for me having to learn some hard but necessary lessons. When it comes to my writing origin story I can most widely say, that at the time, the lessons I learned changed my personal perspective and the freedom with which I wrote- drastically. 

I always wanted it back though- the freedom. I don't know what that says about me deep down but I still wanted to be one of the ones gifted with the natural talent to use words and be brave enough to use them with a bold free hand even when I consciously shunned the idea or felt shame for wanting it. Because isn't it wrong to wanna BE God- even if just on paper? Isn't it selfish to be free? Isn't there a right way to use words? A righteous way? Shouldn't it be my goal to be tempered and responsible and polite--cautious? Shouldn't my writing think about the people around me? 

As a young adult I remember reading Oprah's notorious book club pick, A Million Little Pieces. It was a bold, unflinching, and in your face read. I was suspicious and intrigued at the author's talent and audacity. When the scandal unfolded it was almost like an affirmation. I probably even let out a breath. It affirmed my burgeoning Spiderman philosophy in writing, "to whom much is given, much is required". The author's very public smack down and cancellation before the social masses ever really did that sort of thing was a mental back pat to me at the time that you didn't just write any 'ol kind of way and get away with it! 

Anyway, I got into the habit where I would write journals and lists and contracts and letters and all that everyday informal stuff- because I still needed to write but my voice was gone. I lacked depth and authenticity when I did write something more significant. I would try to write something personal and be bogged down with thoughts about what others might think or how they would be effected or how my words might come across. I would measure my words against the standards of others. Bare bones magical storytelling or raw emotion, the sometimes messily masterful shit that really splinters open something real? That was and is something entirely different and I no longer dared to do that. 

I went through a stage where I believed that if I could become clever enough maybe I could be a writer without the authenticity bit. I don't know if I consciously mapped a course for that but there was a time where no matter how many hundreds of books I've read, no matter the vast cumulative hours, days, years of literary consumption I had, I could never have the knowledge or insight that made me smart enough to spin a masterpiece others would want to consume. I discovered that it's hard for me to write well without including little splinters of myself. Ironically, no matter how many vocabulary words I know, it's the simple words that ring true and its the plain language that always would hit me the hardest. 

I haven't been brave enough to be my real self on the page for a good and long time. 

I'm so glad I've grown a bit. I'm so glad I tried Writing Down the Bones again. I'm so glad that I'm getting past discounting myself. I'm so glad that I'm learning and flexing my writing muscles as they grow. I suspect this blog will be about me learning. 

I'm proud to say that being a writer of a certain age I am still learning many things anew. I used to think people grew up to a certain number of years and then refused anything new or fresh in life. I had seen that model of living in action with seemingly irrefutable evidence to that ancient adage- "you can't teach an old dog new tricks". I'm so glad familiar or even societal habits don't have to be passed along and/or consumed. 

There are many things to talk about, many things here on my little blog. It's still the way I process life but I will likely talk most about me learning to write authentically and just plain...better. 

What are you all learning and talking about in this season of your life? If you are a writer, what personal limiting beliefs are you overcoming?