So much of my life I’ve forgotten. The moments, thoughts and feelings have accumulated, piled one on top the other like in my cluttered house. I had a tough childhood and found myself when I moved to France for a year at the age of 19. I wrote very little of it down.
So much has happened since — I was a 20-something backpacker and grad student and a 30-something new wife and mother. In between, I lived and traveled in Asia, wrecked several relationships, spent two nights in jail, embarked on marriage and motherhood, organized a protest movement, suffered multiple miscarriages, and experienced the joy of rebirth. Through it all, I’ve continuously reinvented myself, so much so that I have a hard time relating to previous versions of myself.
Yet, I’ve spent so little time writing down my inner dialogue and experiences that I’ve lost so many details to the erosion of time.
At 37 years old, the one piece of writing I have committed to is keeping a journal about my kids’ lives, for them. While it’s important to me, it doesn’t make me the “writer” I always have thought I would become. And while I’ve used my aptitude for language to earn myself money, I’ve done very little to find my authentic voice, practice my craft, or express my soul.
The great thing is I can always reinvent myself, if I remain open to growth and self-disciplined enough to persist even when life gets hard. And the great thing about me is that even though I am a perpetual procrastinator, somehow I always seem to come through in the end.
So on the 17th day of this new year, I commit myself to a daily writing practice and to keeping a blog. I don’t expect to become Hemingway or win a large following, but I feel like this step has been procrastinated most of my youth and the woman I’ve become wants to stake her ground. I want to see if I can become the person I think I was meant to be, but who I haven’t gotten around to cultivating yet.
Even if this blog doesn’t become a springboard for a successful writing career, I need to have a creative project so I can keep my individuality alive, and have a better way to remember my life.
When I am 85 or 95 and about to expire, I want to be able to fantasize that I am 37 again, raising young kids and cuddling with my husband, my family’s life together still mostly ahead of me. And, when I die, I don’t want to disappoint myself with dreams I didn’t follow.