Sometimes writers are too hard on themselves. Sometimes, people are too hard on themselves.
Unforgiving others often times leads to an unwillingness to forgive oneself.
With the month of March come and gone, blogless, I take inventory of how this mission I set out on, to write, takes this blow of failure.
Writing has been a passion since my childhood. My New Kids on the Block poster drenched room was a creative studio in which I’d produce illustrated stories for my younger brother. “The Dot” series, all about an anthropomorphized dot who, coincidentally, learned lessons by making mistakes, was my first experience at what I’d call writing. I’d watch as my brother thumbed through the pages, actually enjoying himself. My ego experienced it’s first strokes, his genuine interest and excitement to read the next issue propelled it into existence.
And here I am. I don’t write “The Dot” stories anymore. Perhaps my skills and imagination have been tainted by a world of recessions and bills, under that pile of stress induced apathy struggles the little dot’s breathing. This simple, monthly blog, a labor of love, neglected, has forced me to ask myself where did March go?
As I try to think of the cleverest answer, I realize March was not for words. She was lived, breathed, felt, imagined and hoped. She saw sea otters from cliffs playing in the waves. She coasted with her best friends though conversations that took up entire days and nights. She saw vineyards and the bottom of wine glasses under the beautiful, soaring wings of vultures. She hoped to not forget what it looks like from underneath. She flirted with fading youth, aware of the deepening lines and insane asylum walls that were her hotel room. She forgave herself and everyone who had and would walk upon her before she even thought it was necessary.
