Thursday, May 23, 2013

Writing is more

I have taken a year long sabatical from writing. I've done this for all of the proper reasons, of course:

I am tired.
I have a new job.
I moved across the ocean.
I have a four year old.
My job is too much.
My time is too little.

And here I sit.
Believing it.

And because I believe it, I hid. I hid good. I hid behind insecurity and self-doubt, behind the guise of a simple Texas girl who moved to be among the international intellectuals in a school where people in the staff lounge talk about "What will happen politically in Kashmir" or " which theoretical 'such and such' is proof that 'such as that' is possibly real". I watch them pick up The Times and The Guardian, and make opinionated comments on 'this article' and see them laugh at the buffonery of 'that character'. They recite poetry, little snippits of Keats, for example, over their curry lunch, and discuss the relative validity of Margaret Thatcher in light of America's almost heretical worship and, as we all know, Reagan..

And I hid deeper.
Burrowed even.

Tonight, on a whim (read, an attempt to avoid ridiculous marking load under the pretense of 'seeing if my blog was still there, even') I looked back at some of my better blog posts. I found a little one, one that didn't get very much attention from my virtual community, but one that was most endearing to my heart.  In the comment section, I found this:
 
"You know how on those rare occasions that you'll admit to another living, breathing human being that, yes, you sometimes write a little bit, you almost always follow that with a demure look to the floor and say something self-effacing that sounds like 'it's just a hobby' but really means 'I think I'm only good enough for it to be just a hobby'? You know that moment? The next time you have one of those, you need to read this post.

'cause damn. You're good."

And then I cried. Because I can't hide anymore. And I can't be afraid. And tired is just stupid. And work is.. well intimidating.. but writing is more.

3 comments:

Nemo said...

So where is it?

Nemo said...

Also, by the way, I'm not attempting to be a confrontation asshole with that. But I miss when you were my teacher, and I miss trading comments with you via blog after the school years ended more. You were always pretty cool, and I'd like to see a resurgence of more of the cool things that have been part of my life.

Ginger said...

Hi! I doon't think you're being a confrontation asshole! Ha! I appreciate your comments and, quite frankly, need to be kicked a few times to get started. Writing's like excercise. I've been sitting on the couch for an entire year and now that I've decided to get up, it takes some motivation. WHere I used to sprint, I now only jog.. but only when folks are looking. Then I walk. So I'm in the middle of the walk/jog mode. I've started a few snippets but nothing complete or worth posting.
I'm currently writing a creative writing and media course. I hope this will also add to the kick start..

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Writing is more

I have taken a year long sabatical from writing. I've done this for all of the proper reasons, of course:

I am tired.
I have a new job.
I moved across the ocean.
I have a four year old.
My job is too much.
My time is too little.

And here I sit.
Believing it.

And because I believe it, I hid. I hid good. I hid behind insecurity and self-doubt, behind the guise of a simple Texas girl who moved to be among the international intellectuals in a school where people in the staff lounge talk about "What will happen politically in Kashmir" or " which theoretical 'such and such' is proof that 'such as that' is possibly real". I watch them pick up The Times and The Guardian, and make opinionated comments on 'this article' and see them laugh at the buffonery of 'that character'. They recite poetry, little snippits of Keats, for example, over their curry lunch, and discuss the relative validity of Margaret Thatcher in light of America's almost heretical worship and, as we all know, Reagan..

And I hid deeper.
Burrowed even.

Tonight, on a whim (read, an attempt to avoid ridiculous marking load under the pretense of 'seeing if my blog was still there, even') I looked back at some of my better blog posts. I found a little one, one that didn't get very much attention from my virtual community, but one that was most endearing to my heart.  In the comment section, I found this:
 
"You know how on those rare occasions that you'll admit to another living, breathing human being that, yes, you sometimes write a little bit, you almost always follow that with a demure look to the floor and say something self-effacing that sounds like 'it's just a hobby' but really means 'I think I'm only good enough for it to be just a hobby'? You know that moment? The next time you have one of those, you need to read this post.

'cause damn. You're good."

And then I cried. Because I can't hide anymore. And I can't be afraid. And tired is just stupid. And work is.. well intimidating.. but writing is more.

3 comments:

Nemo said...

So where is it?

Nemo said...

Also, by the way, I'm not attempting to be a confrontation asshole with that. But I miss when you were my teacher, and I miss trading comments with you via blog after the school years ended more. You were always pretty cool, and I'd like to see a resurgence of more of the cool things that have been part of my life.

Ginger said...

Hi! I doon't think you're being a confrontation asshole! Ha! I appreciate your comments and, quite frankly, need to be kicked a few times to get started. Writing's like excercise. I've been sitting on the couch for an entire year and now that I've decided to get up, it takes some motivation. WHere I used to sprint, I now only jog.. but only when folks are looking. Then I walk. So I'm in the middle of the walk/jog mode. I've started a few snippets but nothing complete or worth posting.
I'm currently writing a creative writing and media course. I hope this will also add to the kick start..