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I want to write, but I am crippled.
I am afraid I don’t have a story. All I have wanted all my life is to write a book, and I don’t know if there is one inside of me.
I read what I have written and I hate it. It’s too much truth … too many people who could claim libel for finding themselves in my so-called tale.
I’m afraid that in so many years of blogging I’ve lost the ability to talk about anything but myself.
I write magazine articles: recrafted stories of others, dictated to me and simply made palatable. I write blog posts: a messy conglomeration of stories, recipes, wonderings, life. Some of them are good and interesting, but nowhere in there lies a true tale anyone would want to read from start to finish.
I want to write Matlida. I want the stories to come to me in dreams and flow onto the pages effortlessly. I want to see the movie of it in my head and move it forward without thinking. Instead, I stare at two sentences and then click delete. It’s all I can do to make myself write anything, fiction or not. An e-mail. A sentence.
And then I wonder if I have the knowledge to write nonfiction. I want to write about our possessive culture, how we think we have rights and everything belongs to us and even Rachael Ray calls it “my cilantro” and “my tacos.” I want to write about God as Father and Jesus as Husband and how those two relationships figure in to the literal relationships we have with earthly fathers and husbands. I want people to read my words and not be able to help being drawn to the bosom of God.
I want the words to come and I’m afraid I’ve lost them in the midst of “Mommy I’m hungry” and wailing and library storytimes and coffee making and having one stinking minute to myself.