I used to be good at English in school, I used to write for the sake of writing. As a teenager I wrote stories and poems constantly. Not for an audience but in order to have some direction for that teenage drama and creativity that threatens to explode out of you at that age.
In college I wrote papers and essays. I studied psychology and was provoked to think and to learn. During my post-grad I explored education and philosophy. I adored all of it. I loved nothing more than spending 40 minutes in a lecture hall absorbing. I loved spending hours in the library and in my room constructing essays.
Then I started to work with children and all of my learning because based around their learning, my world was full of phonics and ready steady maths. I researched and learned but all my energies went into teaching and my own writing dwindled to lesson plans due to my workload.
Blogging was supposed to be a way to try and spark those creative juices again. Instead I find that my writing is stunted and amateurish. A potential audience is terrifying. I have yet to let go of my inhibitions and just write. Instead I feel stilted. I haven’t found my voice.
And yet I am living the most amazing experiences. I have given birth, I am watching my children grow, they amaze me on a daily basis. My world has slowed down and filled up. But these experiences are too big for me and my useless attempts to catch them in writing. There is no way to express my love and amazement, the fact that I daily witness small miracles and that these miracles are the most ordinary everyday things.
I wish I could write and capture them, these moments in time that I dread forgetting. These little ordinary things, the chubbiness of their hands, the sound of their voices, their faces. These fleeting things that are changing every day.
So I will write, with my halting, awkward style. Not for an audience but for me, so that when I read back, despite cringing of my lack of talent I might catch a flicker of these moments when they are long gone.