From whom is a blog? The author, those they know personally, those they hope read their posts, parts of themselves they wish to explore?
At times, I write to work things out, and do so here, as a means of going public, to prevent myself from hiding, to share with others common struggles that many of us share. Or at least I hope many of us share; the fear of being alone with one's pains and struggles is frightening, indeed.
I am here in Manila, early morning, drinking coffee in a cafe. Writing. The simple act of writing; I could be anywhere in the world at this moment, the joys the same, the struggles the same.
I am trying to let go. I am trying to simplify. I am trying to have confidence in accepting what truly is important to me, and not worry that the world might not find this enough. Might not find me enough. No, that I might not find me enough.
There are several interlocking areas that I have written researched and written about for many years; part of me no longer wishes to do write or research these anymore; part of me is afraid of letting go.
These formed the basis for my doctoral work, my dissertation, my tenure and promotion, my promotion to full professor. They have formed a key part of my professional identity.
And the truth is, I have to push myself to read about them these days.
Frankly, I just want to read and write about writing. Writing has always been "it," even when I have not know what to write about.
I am becoming something else, in the last year of my forties.
Hang on.
At times, I write to work things out, and do so here, as a means of going public, to prevent myself from hiding, to share with others common struggles that many of us share. Or at least I hope many of us share; the fear of being alone with one's pains and struggles is frightening, indeed.
I am here in Manila, early morning, drinking coffee in a cafe. Writing. The simple act of writing; I could be anywhere in the world at this moment, the joys the same, the struggles the same.
I am trying to let go. I am trying to simplify. I am trying to have confidence in accepting what truly is important to me, and not worry that the world might not find this enough. Might not find me enough. No, that I might not find me enough.
There are several interlocking areas that I have written researched and written about for many years; part of me no longer wishes to do write or research these anymore; part of me is afraid of letting go.
These formed the basis for my doctoral work, my dissertation, my tenure and promotion, my promotion to full professor. They have formed a key part of my professional identity.
And the truth is, I have to push myself to read about them these days.
Frankly, I just want to read and write about writing. Writing has always been "it," even when I have not know what to write about.
I am becoming something else, in the last year of my forties.
Hang on.
No comments:
Post a Comment