Again I've gone almost a whole day and not typed anything in this big, blank box in the back end of blogger.
Oh I've written today, yes, I wrote on the train on the way home, but by its very nature the result is a somewhat rambling stream of consciousness, so I'll spare you that.
I realise that in defaulting to these short, consolatory posts at the very last minute of each day I am actually enabling my own insecurities, and masterminding my own staying-small.
There are some incredible topics in my list, feminism, for one, past lives, humour, etc, but by scrabbling together these afterthoughts of the day fewer than 30 minutes before the deadline I can only be selling myself short, surely?
Big, meaty topics such as feminism, such as "What's the point of Twitter?" should excite me, and as things I am so passionate about in day-to-day life they do, but as topics to write about, they are in fact quite terrifying. These more serious subjects, for want of a better word, paralyse me, for fear of writing the "wrong" thing.
For the same reason that I never used to write on the front page of a notebook, messing up is one thing, but in plain view of the internet, of your friends and harshest critics alike, is an entirely different kettle of fish.
Perhaps I am subconsciously avoiding my first massively negative response and maybe even keeping myself small in the process. This idea that my time-constrained brain keeps circling, that as more anxious humans we keep ourselves small, is something I've begun to recognise a lot in different aspects of my life and I've realised it plays out literally, figuratively, and both physically and mentally, to different degrees.
But that is no way to live.
So, in the spirit of growth, let's try the alternative and start saying what needs to be said, writing that which, as a writer, cannot go unwritten.
Well, maybe tomorrow.
I'll keep you posted. X