One book only...

Years ago I remember reading somewhere that everyone has one novel inside them waiting to be written.  After that is often when genuine talent and creativity emerges.  After we've told our unique story, then what?

Yesterday I took a day off writing this.  I sat down in front of my computer fully intending to complete a Sunday entry and lo and behold, there was nothing.  Absolutely nothing! I couldn't invent or drag up any new thoughts or ideas that would entertain me in any way, so I guiltily walked away and left the page blank.  As I did that I remembered very clearly the times when I was studying fine art at university and had to hand in six completed works of art in six weeks.  After completing the first two or three I felt that I had nothing left to say and really struggled to invent something to put on the blank canvas.

This feeling of being presented with a blank canvas and slightly panicking has never really left me. I still have the same sense of dismay when presented with a blank page, canvas or wall that needs something put on it.  It's making that first stroke that gets me every time.  It's often very daunting and I use these feelings to stop myself from even starting.

When I think about this I think it's vanity.  I guess I am afraid that if anyone sees my work, my art, my writing, that I will be judged harshly.  I am vain enough to believe that if I continue to present a confident front I will fool all the people all the time.  There is one great problem with this.  I can never ever fool myself and I am the harshest critic I know. Sometimes I horrify myself with how judgemental I am.  I have a critical opinion about everyone and everything. I am also a terrible gossip.  These are traits that I display in abundance and don't really like about myself, but I guess my saving grace is I mean well and I know I have a big heart.  

When I write this blog I have to go through my days, my nights and all the emotions that shoot through all the time.  It's such an interesting exercise to decide how much of myself to put down on the page.  Do I put down my bad habits?  The things that I don't like having pointed out to me because they are character flaws?  Do I make myself look good so when I look back at the past few hundred entries I am presented with the depth and beauty of my wondrousness (ha ha ha!).

I think I find some sort of middle ground.  I don't put down the sloppy habits I have or the fact that I am unable to wash dishes to the standard that my crazy other half demands, but I also don't put down the high points, the times when my work goes really well and I am applauded by my course participants or when I cook a super-fantastic dinner and feel unnaturally proud.  I try and find the me that I can accept and doesn't feel threatened by having revealed too much.  

The original purpose of this blog was to give me a way to write myself out of winter depression.  I am on the cusp of another winter and in five weeks or so I will have been writing for over a year.  Should I stop at a year?  Has this written record of my emotional journey served its purpose?  I'm not sure.  Maybe I only have so much originality in me, maybe I can only go so deep and then I need to protect myself from too much self-knowledge.  I am not at all sure.

There is always the option to scrape away to the next layer of me, to peel away the next layer and start writing about my inner doubts and unacceptable emotions in order to work through them.  This sounds like hard work and also a bit like self-flagellation.  The other alternative is to peel away the layer of self-doubt until I find the loving, positive me.  Revealing this feels much more threatening and I am sure is more valuable.  I've spent so long concentrating on the crap.  Maybe it's time to look elsewhere.