I have never really thought I can write. At times, when isolated in a fragile bubble of naive blissfulness, I have thought that what was penned by my own hand was worth reading by others. But those bubbles have been popped or beliefs otherwise dispelled in that exact moment when indeed they reached a world beyond my own.
My mom would tell me about how, as a young girl, everyone told her she couldn’t sing. Despite this being a passion of hers, she allowed the echoes of others to ring out and quiet any notions of pursuing it further. The happy ending to that story was she decided, after many years had passed, to turn to her better angels and recognize what was fed to her as a child and onward was false, that she could and ought to sing, and that with hard work and study she could and did make music the focus of her life.
Any parallels to my own life and attempts at writing end after the first part of this parable. Writing is not the way in which I make sense of the world, nor a passion I am destined to pursue. Writing is rather an ability I wish I had, wanting for wistfully like a superpower. If only I could fly and compose eloquently the thoughts otherwise strewn about my mind. And while I can and do, to a certain extent, write for no one other than myself to read, it would be nice to use writing as it was really meant to be used: to communicate.
The problem, however, is that whenever I do feel like venturing beyond diary entries or email responses, the desire is often quelled by either the knowledge given by others that I can’t do so well or the personal discouragement felt after reading my own poorly written diatribes or wishfully poetic musings (this is happening right now, for example).
I have a similar feeling, in fact, when it comes to photography. Perhaps this is true with all forms of creative making outside of the professional one I was trained to perform. (Is it really creative?) But I nevertheless have thoughts and take photos and don’t know otherwise what to do with either. So it seems that no matter the size of the pot nor the weight of its lid, there is always a boiling-over point, a time at which, despite knowing better, one must do. Forgive me.