So I just finished watching “The Wife” starring Glenn Close.
While I don’t want to blow the movie for anyone who has not yet seen it, the final scene made me ache as her character, Joan, puts her hand to the blank page of her own possibilities.
I know that ache. It has been with me since I was ten and wrote my first story about a robin sighting in the woods surrounding our lakeside home. It told me spring was on its way, and I had to share that news.
But like Joan, I have always doubted anyone would want to pick up a book that had my name on it as an author. Not because I am a woman, mind you, but because I have always been afraid I had little to say, or that what I said would not be beautifully enough told.
My writing career has always been peripatetic, despite my degree in journalism; six years working for a local California newspaper; a win for my paper of a California Newspaper Publishers Association award.
Yet it was always my writing skill employers most appreciated, regardless of my official job title and duties.
After self-publishing on Amazon Kindle my own work of spiritual poems a couple of years ago, I thought I was finally able to settle down to write all the things I need to say.
Yet my fear of the irrelevance of my stories has stopped me cold-I am afraid they will end up strung out like Christmas lights upon the bushes, with mostly burnt out bulbs punctuated by the occasional sputtering light.
I so want all my words to shine.
I stopped blogging right before Christmas out of a sense of holiday depression and Trump fatigue. I was tired of his daily outrages spurring my posts rather than what I wanted to write myself.
But having met the character of Joan, I am encouraged to face the blank pages of this blog and the cursor that blinks wildly at me from my laptop.
Like her words, I am determined mine will be hidden no more.