Good Morning! The sun is shining. I saw my first robin red-breast of the Spring this morning. I peeked out my dining room window to redbuds on blue sky.
It is a good day.
Abigail is at preschool. Benjamin sleeps in the back seat of the car while I blog in the front.
A couple of nights ago, I was looking through some writing from five, six, seven years back. Some of it was utterly embarrassing. I know that you have to write junk to get better, but I was blushing and covering my face at some of this stuff even though I was silent and alone with it.
Just like that, the self doubt crept in. What if what I am writing now is utter junk, too, and I just don't know it yet? Why am I doing this? Do I have any business doing this? Am I just going to embarrass myself?
I took a deep breath and listened for the voice that was being drowned out. The voice that tells me to keep writing. The voice that tells me that I have been writing since I was little. The voice that reads me my very first poem that I remember writing.
Under the dark is a star,
Under the star is the tree,
Under the tree is a blanket, and
Under the blanket is me.
Slowly that voice talks me into continuing to write, even if it is all junk. So what? It makes me happy. I am compelled to do it. Just. Keep. Writing.