I Write For Me

As I sit here in front of the computer with a blank word processor document open on the screen I can think of a handful of things I should be doing instead.  I really should email Sally, my third cousin twice-removed.  It’s only been 23 years since we last spoke.  She might remember me.
Cookie has a bad habit of chewing holes in her stuffed toys.  I should get my sewing box and fix some of her favorite toys we have taken away and put up.  I’m sure she’s missing her “Foxy” right this very minute and I could make her happy if I gave it to her all sewn up.
I’ve been meaning to start an exercise program.  Maybe even yoga.  My out of shape body shouldn’t have any problem twisting into a pretzel.  I’m sure I will feel very relaxed and calm with my legs tied in a knot around my head.  I should get right to that.
There’s a book I’ve been meaning to read for a few months now.  What better time than the present to settle in and crack that spine?  I can curl up in my recliner with a mug of hot tea and lose myself in the book.
Or… I could just sit my butt down here in my chair and start pounding out words.  As a writer I should be in a hurry to get in front of the keyboard and put my thoughts down to be read for years to come.  So why is it so daunting to sit in front of a blank document (or a blank page of a notebook)?
For me, there are two reasons.  I have a tendency to start on a topic and then lose the train of thought.  I can’t figure out where I was going with this and I end up having to stop after only a few paragraphs.  It is worse if I’m working during the day with the dog and the husband and the phone to distract me.
The second reason is that I still struggle with the “not good enough” bug.  I’m always afraid that I’m a nobody.  My words aren’t worth anything to anyone but me and my closest friends.  Maybe a strong enemy would want to read them to gather information to use against me.  Nobody else cares what I think.
This has been a life-long struggle for me.  My self-esteem was very low for most of my life.  I lived a long time believing I was here only to serve others and that my life had no meaning if I wasn’t helping someone else out.  There are days yet when I still fall into that same routine.  I take a backseat so someone else can be happy.  So someone else can have what they desire and want.
I guess I’m a bit of a confused writer.  I write because I need the world to understand me.  My words paint a picture of who I am and what I think.  To read the words I write is to know me.  I want people to read what I write.
Yet, I hesitate to write because I’m afraid people won’t want to read what I write.  I’m afraid of ridicule.  Readers will make fun of the words I use.  They won’t like my style of writing, my choice of words.  Friends and relatives won’t agree with the topics of my writing.  I’m afraid to let people read what I write.
There are as many excuses as there are leaves in the wind.  Creatively I think I could come up with that many reasons NOT to write if I wanted to.  But the truth is that I like to write and I want to write.  It’s important to me that people try to understand me.  And so, here I sit in front of a keyboard.  But the page isn’t blank anymore.
I remind myself that I also write for me.  I write because it’s what I need to do to help me understand myself.  Writing helps to heal the wounds within my soul.  It releases energy I’ve had stored up inside me for far too long.
If a reader enjoys my words, that’s even better!