As you may know by now, I do not take this blog very seriously. This is one of those places that I believe to be safe ground for some of my inner musings or things that I chose to reflect upon more deeply, and that I hope will be taken in by someone who might possibly appreciate them, yet I don’t take it seriously. Why not? It’s not that my family doesn’t appreciate my thoughts. I do think I might wear them out sometimes with information…cause damn do I like to ponder, always have , and probably won’t ever stop, but why would I not want to regularly share these things with others when that is the desire that I have.
Come to think of it…I do not believe that I took a diary very seriously, either. I wasn’t ever the girl who wrote down all of her dreams to one day see them realized. Actually, I never really held any dreams of my future. My mother was always very cynical and I think a bit rubbed off. Okay not a bit, more like a lot.
I do have one journal that I have had for many years. It contains very angry rants. A lot of them that I have went back through and read were rather frightful and depressing so I ripped them out and threw them away, but over the last 10 years the book is still only about half full.
I do however have more than 10 spiral notebooks and notepads and loose leaf paper by the reams filled with so many musings that I keep telling myself will eventually come to a culmination of sorts. I have drawings pads with ideas and thoughts of different paintings that I want to believe will grant me access to the realm of the famous. Not Hollywood famous, but legendary prominence like Monet, Dostoevsky, and Thoreau. Renowned for works that stand the test of time, works that go deeply within the human condition; works that condense and pass on the lessons learned from experience.
Is that too much to ask for? Am I crazy to want this? Can I not be humble having this wish?
It is if, though, that I am not willing to go through with my desires until the end…
While I was yet again procrastinating on writing my novel last night, I was reading the success stories of other writers which was making me feel as though I will never amount to anything. I began to feel as though I don’t have anything to truly contribute. Then, I believe I came across what amounts to an epiphany (thank you dreamland):
I procrastinate because I am afraid of failure.
Yeah, pretty simple right? This apparently is something that I have been denying for a very long time.
I procrastinate a lot, and always tell myself that I will get these finished, and I tell others I will get these finished, then I give myself excuses like “You have three kids and a dirty house…do those paintings later.” “You need to make some more money to help pay the bills that blog post can wait another day.” I then contemplate finishing my Masters believing that will give me the confidence I need to achieve something great.
I’m a very productive procrastinator; the production just has nothing to do with my true inner desires.
I don’t stand up to my critic who is afraid of being shot down. My critic is scared. It is scared to look out of the window to see the beauty of the world because something bad might happen. It is scared to take just one more step toward the edge to see the beautiful waterfall, because what if it isn’t so great and you fall. If it just acts as though it doesn’t care too much about the venture, then it won’t hurt so badly when it never properly comes to fruition.
I have to start standing up to my critic and just do ‘it’ for myself; fail or not. So what, if I fail the first time? I can try something different. Many of these blogs posts are me telling my critic to “Fuck off!”
I am getting stronger.
Now, I just need one more cup of coffee and to vacuum this room.