Before finally deciding to start this blog, I thought to myself, “Yeah I have interesting things to say and write about.” And then I sat down to write something and that stomach tightening fear set in – what do I say? Where do I begin? I am not clever or funny or full of pithy little Wodehouse style quips. What I am I doing? Why even try? Moreover how am I supposed to type (or even *gasp* be creative) when I am using one arm to hold a screaming baby and the other to hold off my toddler from pressing every button on the computer? So I almost quit. And then I reminded myself of what I tell my students every day: failure means not trying.
How many things have I lost out on because I didn’t even try? Dozens I am sure. I mean I probably could have been some fluent-French speaking, piano-dueling, prima ballerina if I had just stuck with it long enough. The thing is that I am none of those things because I eventually gave up. Okay, so the analogy breaks down because I did try them, but not long enough to become really good at them. And so we arrive here, where once again I am trying something and feeling the struggle. The struggle of not being good enough. The struggle of comparing myself to others. The struggle of time and commitments and not wanting to look like a fool.
But I love to write. I love what writing is. It is freeing and cathartic. There is just something so beautiful about ruminating on a moment or feeling and attempting to explain it in a tone and language that would allow someone else to experience the same feeling, moment, place and time that you did. It is beautiful and scary in its vulnerability. But in that give and take of writing and reading, a community is created, a bond is formed. In writing, we build upon our human desire to know and be known.
So my goal is to press forward, to get past my fear of failure, and to just be me. Maybe one day I will even write something that more than just a group of fourth graders would find funny.