I don’t write because I have nothing to say. I don’t write because I have too much to say. I don’t write because what I want to say isn’t happy and inspiring, and I don’t want to bring others around me down. I don’t write because I have huge bursts of insecurity, thinking that no one wants to hear what I have to say, so why bother. I don’t write because I can’t stand to write even one untrue sentence, yet I’m convinced no one wants to hear my truth.
I don’t write because my oldest son doesn’t fall asleep at night until very late, so my evening doesn’t start until 10pm, and then I have to do the dishes, sweep under the dinner table, fold the mountains of laundry at the foot of my bed, lay out the clothes for the next morning, prepare for my yoga classes the next day, watch a TV show to pretend I have a life of my own, fall asleep on the couch, wake up to lift my littlest to the toilet or else wash his sheets again in the morning, climb into bed at midnight and vow to go to bed earlier the next night, wake up to a warm little visitor at 4am who snuggles on top of me and uses my chest as his pillow, and wait for my alarm to go off at 6.
I don’t write because there is so much noise out there. We are inundated with images, information, words, headlines, posts, and articles, and I don’t want to add to the noise. Enough is being said, so I think I should bow out and try to add to the quiet.
I don’t write because my brain is fried by the time I get two minutes to myself, and Netflix and chocolate are so much more appealing than a blank screen. I don’t write because my job involves so much talking, and when I’m home, I want to retreat, hide, and become invisible.
I don’t write because I want it so much I’m scared to fail.
But I must I write because I have a voice. I write because a muted voice leads to a clogged soul. I can stay safe and guarded and not take any chances in this life. I can coast on the path I’m on for the next 50 years. Or I can crack open my heart and write.