This is not just another post about the importance of my voice. It’s a jaw dropping conscious acknowledgment of its vitality.
I’m in the midlands of Michigan visiting my in-laws, when that knocking of my heart and my anxiety decided to take a run without me. There are things I want to say, to scream from the rooftops, but I can’t. It would be selfish, egocentric, and create a tumult of pain and suffering to others.
So, I did the next best thing. I wrote in my journal. I poured it all out of my soul and onto a page. It miraculously relieved the tension, silenced the knocking, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the night.
So, I realized. I write because it is the only way I can truly be me. It is the only medium I have discovered that is the salve to my suffering. It is where my voice and soul can roar. I can wallow in self-pity or create worlds of massive historic and cultural complexity. It is entirely my choice how I choose to use it.
It is my outlet. Obvious, right?
No. Because since I have started on this winding, peril riddled journey of becoming a professional writer, I have been self-editing my voice for fear it isn’t good enough for the outside world. I’ve floundered because of criticism.
I’ve lost my zest for it because of the fear I harbor that I don’t belong or I’m not good enough. All I have done is traded one subconscious leash for another one. I’ve walked into another world where I am not good enough.
But, that is foul thinking that I am trying to extract like a malicious tick from under my skin through my EMDR therapy.
Until then, I am going to uncork this idiotic thought that I am not a good enough writer and that I might not belong in the larger literary world of published/successful writers. I might need others to open the doors of success but the keys to my inner kingdoms are here in my very own fingertips. And, I don’t need anyone’s approval, praise, or accolades to use them.