Of Letter Writers and Chrysanthemum flowers.

My greatest fear is blogging. I’ve been asked many times what the hell am I most afraid of and let me tell you this: it is blaring out pieces of my soul and my story on this blog.

But my greatest love is writing. If love was a flower then writing is my  chrysanthemum.

Many a time I have succumbed to enormously emotional tantrums that have no name or category and I cannot even begin to understand what they are…until I put those feelings to words. I am happiest when I know who I am, and who I am lies in the words I use.

It is so strange, but the more I think about it, the more I constantly notice that…I am constantly writing. Whether it be sentences, giant paragraphs, or links of beautiful meaningless words in tidy zig zag rows whether it be jottings of post it notes, drafts of forgotten emails and love notes, and ripped, shredded spit upon angry letters to those who’ve hurt me.

In writing, I find solace, knowing that all will be well as soon as I write.

I’m not an abstractionist by any means; abstracted thoughts and images is what I seek to get RID of. I don’t want abstract, murky thoughts in my head; I want clarity and a peace of mind and a method to understand clearly what I’m really trying to achieve.

Am I a writer then, you may ask? My  answer is probably…no. Writers write to communicate to an audience (Betsy Larner, bless her heart), writers write to tell a story (and they do a fffreaking good job of that in solitary loneliness)

I write so I can understand my own story, so that I can finally come to terms with myself and so that I don’t have to live with this mess I call me.

In fact, I am of the strict opinion that I am neither a true blogger or a true writer. Generalizations and stereotypes aside, I simply do not commit to either side and perhaps this choosing is something I need to do. soon. What I really enjoy writing are unsent letters. And working on a Southern accent.

Haha. Funny this. I have a pile of unsent letters to men and women whom I’ve forgotten over the years but whose memories whiff into my life every now and then. Perhaps I shall create a profession for myself where I can spend the whole day writing letters of all types and go home with a heavy satisfied heart.

Is there room in this world for someone like that? Someone who does not like to be called a blogger nor be classified as a writer? Someone who cannot even begin to understand herself, her Id, and her Ego until she lays furious fingertips on a key board or scribbles on paper napkins?

This story contains no head or tail, no hint or whiff of any internal personal trauma. But I.feel. relieved. From the world of my experience, inner turmoil becomes so much clearer and easier to solve after one puts them into words. And sings them to sleep.