This summer I've been completely remiss in posting with any regularity at all. But that's not all bad, right? Ok, it's true that there are people who insist that to have a blog, you should post every day. And that's probably true if you're trying to build a business or a following. But I'm trying to build a life.
And life has a way of getting in the way.
My blog posts are often random and may seemingly go nowhere. They range in topic from my motorcycle adventures to what I like to think of as "deep thoughts by Heather." I've tried to post on topics that I think people want to read about, but trying to mold my content like that doesn't fit who I am anymore.
And life has a way of getting in the way.
Over the past few weeks there are lots of times that I've thought of all of you and wanted to share what I'm thinking or feeling. When I was struck weak by something tragic (the stage collapse at the Indiana State Fair) or left speechless by the beauty of something that I've seemingly passed every day.
But life has a way of getting in the way.
When I started this blog, it was about sharing my 101 in 1001 and all the interesting stories that go with those adventures. It slowly morphed into a place that I could go and let it all hang out virtually. I wrote what I wanted. If it popped into my head, I probably told you all about it. And I felt like I could do that because nobody was listening anyway, right? If I write something offensive in the middle of the woods and there is no one to hear it, is anyone offended anyway?
But then people started to read.
And that's a good thing, right? Don't we all want to be heard? The problem is when we feel like we can't really speak anymore. Are we really being heard anymore then? Putting it all out there is most definitely cathartic and I never intend to hurt anyone's feelings. But people's feelings have a way of getting hurt anyway.
And people have a way of getting in the way.
So I guess I've held back.
And holding back has a way of getting in the way.
Of being known.
So I'm going to do the scary thing. And I'm going to start again.
I'm going to begin creating again.
I'm going to start sharing again.
I'm going to try living again.
I'm going to seek to know again.
I'm going to be open to being known again.
I am going to do the scary thing.
I'm going to try loving again.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
A month of fiction would not be complete without talking about writing!
Yes, I write on this blog, but as a mathematician, I don't really spend much of my time trying to be creative linguistically (nice word, huh?).
But at one point in my life, that wasn't true. And I would venture a guess that even my closest friends don't know that.
It all started when I was in first grade. I was a good kid. A really good kid! So you can imagine my horror when my teacher told me that she needed to see me in the hallway. Egad! That's where the BAD kids went when they were in trouble! What could I have done?!?
But I wasn't in trouble. I mean, really. How could I be? I mentioned I was a good kid, right? haha
No, instead, my teacher, Mrs. G said she had a special project just for me. There was an event that she wanted me to participate in. It was called the Young Authors and Artists conference. She wanted me to write a book. An entire book!
So for the next few weeks instead of going outside to play, I was writing. If I wanted to have fun, my mom would ask me how the book was coming. It seems like every waking moment was spent at the kitchen table carefully writing the story and illustrating the pages. (It was really only probably 10 pages, but that's a LOT for a first grader to write AND illustrate!)
So when the book was finished, I attended the conference with my mom. We were separated by age and each group of kids (and their parents) went to a separate room where we talked about our books and showed the other participants. Then we got to "autograph" each other's book.
While this may not seem like a big deal to some, it was a very cool thing to me.
But the best thing wasn't my signature on the books of other people, it was the signature of one particular little girl on my book. As I have said, we were in first grade. We were writing on unlined paper and I was fascinated by this little girl's signature because she wrote in a straight line! ....without lines on the paper!
So, here's my question. Why is THAT the big thing that I remember about this entire story? Why did that little girl's signature make me want to be someone who could write in a straight line on unlined paper? Why did that one seemingly insignificant event in my life become part of who I am today?