I love books. I love blank books, journals, sketch books…anything bound and interesting to look at. I am addicted to them, and have them lined up on shelves just waiting for something to be written. The pity of it is, some of them have been waiting for years because I just don’t dare muddy them up with something I’ll be embarrassed to claim later, should someone actually read them.
This is something that has to stop. I realize my fears of discovery, failure actually. I have, in the past, tried to journal, only to tear out the pages because of the issues involved in my writing or the disappointment that, once written down, my hopes would remain unfulfilled.
What I’m missing out on though, is the continuation of my awareness and hopefulness. I think it, but neglect to put it down someplace, simply because it may not come to fruition. How absurd is that? Or is it?
Does anyone else dread the prospect of expressing a hope or prayer, only to retain it in some hidden place so that no one will discover your weakness? Once that secret is exposed, either in word or written in the pages of the terrifying volume, there is no longer any chance of remaining unscathed by disappointment. The love of your life chooses another, and you’ve told someone or written it down, only to be the object of pity or scorn for having hoped for something beyond your reach.
It’s all very dramatic, but real. When I was younger, I shied away from expressing the hope that a guy would like me. I had low expectations, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to become the victim of unrequited love…not in the eyes of other people. In later years, when trying to journal my hopes for a coming year, or declarations of intent, the pages would be summarily torn out of the book as time progressed and nothing came of my dreams.
Now, obviously, I’ve told my friends about hopes and dreams, made plans and carried around ideas for events or projects. But I haven’t tried to write the fantasies or ramblings that go into a diary or journal. Day to day events weren’t enough to record, for the most part. The record of my life is what I hold in my memory or in the concrete evidence of what has been. My only journal happens to be one where I rant over an affair gone wrong, and it contains some very vibrant references, and comparisons, none of which will ever see the light of day in someone else’s hands. Sort of a blog gone wrong.
Today, though, I am making a change. I have a little book (more than one, as I’ve said) and it is going to be my friend. It will have a record of my rambling thoughts and ideas, and I will not fear it’s outcome. I am a creative person, and I’ve neglected the very obvious way in which I can enlarge my vision for what can be, whether artistic or real life. It may seem as though this mandate for change is a little obvious, and yet most things of importance are obvious. It’s a matter of habit, much like going to the gym. But, that’s another commitment I’m trying to make. More about that later.
I will cease being a coward. It’s no way to live, no matter how you spin it with angles and words that provide camouflage for what is ahead, for real life. It’s silly to restrain myself from writing about my hopes, thinking in a negative way rather than creating the outcome of which I dream. I watched the movie The Holiday last weekend. The best line in the movie is when an elderly screenwriter tells one of the leading characters (Kate Winslet) that she’s acting like the “best friend”, and she ought to act like the “leading lady”. To which Kate replies that a person ought to be a leading lady in her own life. That is brilliant. I am totally embracing that.
So, I will think it, speak it and write it. I will have what I believe and say. I will be the leading lady in my life, and not take a backseat to the people around me. We have the capacity to dream, and we can either submit to the barriers that keep us from our dreams, or remove them. And, I will write it all down.