From my Journal

As a writer, a blank page shouldn’t scare me, it should excite me.
But when it comes to how I’m feeling or what I’m thinking, I’m always full of crushing self-doubt.
As I write my feelings down, a voice in my head offers her sighs and critique. “Oh you feel that way? Wow that’s wrong.” Or, “That’s bothering you, Please. talk about first world problems.”
A blank page could mean freedom but it often feels like a stage and I’m the lead but no one gave me the script for this performance.
There’s pressure to say the right things, to always be progressing forward.  “Marlie, careful not to take two steps back when you’ve already taken a few forward.” I tell myself. But really, the beauty of a blank page is that it is an invitation to be human.
You see a child scribbling on a page and he calls it a robot ninja shark.
A middle school girl blushes as she writes, “I think I love him,”in her diary and in her eyes it’s real as love has ever been.
A blank page haunts the college student who forgot about that term paper that was due the next day, it’s 3am and he’s only written his name and the heading.
A blank page could be a will for a dying man or a grocery list for a family of 4, a resume for a college graduate or the vows for a newlywed couple.
Even now, I sat down with this blank page with the intention of writing about my feelings and I wonder if I just spent the last 30 minutes cleverly averting that topic. so  THIS blank page instead is filled with words about pages, and before I get myself even more confused, I’ll move on to this next page and try all over again.
“My name is Marlie, and this is how I’m feeling and that’s okay because I’m a human being.”

 

 

 

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