Since I was a pre-teen, and emotions swept through me like the raging storm they were, I wrote. There is hardly an extended period of time I can remember, except when life was boringly easy, that I wasn’t expressing myself in poem, song, prose, story or journal. It came as naturally as summer breezes and winter frosts.
I am, at times, so abundantly productive that I literally lose myself in writing. Unfortunately, as easily, I lose the writings themselves. This morning I scoured my computer looking for a fictionalized story of my life that I began writing yeas ago. I found it (thank God I printed it out) when I was looking for the email list I lost – which was to be fodder for the sale of my memoir. Another topic entirely – to which I promise to return In time.
As I age, I get more involved with more dealings and I find myself less organized. Or perhaps it’s a memory issue. Anyway, I was looking on my computer for this fictionalized story because I was editing the hard copy and that was becoming cumbersome. I did not (of course) locate this story anywhere – on my hard-drive, in my documents, downloads, Microsoft word files, writing folders – but I did come across something else. Chapters of beautiful writing for my book that I entirely lost sight of, forgot was there, remembered I even wrote.
The heartache, the tears, the self-flagellation that took place – nah, just kidding. It was more shock, surprise and pride. I was amazed at how much and how well I could express myself. Then my pride turned to overwhelm. I sat starring at a computer screen of lovely words, and I wanted to crawl under my desk, like a child, and hide. From myself. Because I questioned my memory, my commitment to myself, my career, my future, what exactly I was doing. I was not proud now, I was frightened – because an old friend, rather an old energy, known by the name perfection – had found her way back into my unsuspecting brain.
Judging. Myself. Not an unfamiliar feeling, and I don’t usually measure up. Especially if perfection is hard hitting, which it is by definition (to say nothing of impossible to achieve). So, the healthy side of me chose to write about it in a post, bringing it into the light of day and out of the recesses of my enabling mind. And I feel better. A little. Because I see it for what it is (although the organization and memory issues are not un-disturbing), a blue dragon with fire breath that will never be satisfied. On the other hand, while imperfection abounds, I can still be pleased with small successes achieved and a talent I relish. Regardless of the outcome.