I’m exhausted from a trying day. More trying than usual. Yet at this late hour I find myself browsing through old notes that formed part of a feeble attempt to write the novel about my life that so many keep insisting would be a worthwhile endeavour. Apparently it holds the promise of being therapeutic to others, if not myself.
I looked at the word count and was disappointed to see that I had only written about 12,000 words so far. But each paragraph tells a story of its own. If not a struggle, a setback, with the occasional peppering of optimism and a joyful experience. Always short lived. I’ve been toying with the idea of sharing snippets of it from time to time on my blog, or possibly setting up a dedicated page to just ramble on endlessly. But the very real possibility of not finding an audience for it dissuades me from even trying.
I know that one day I’ll regret not putting into words what anguish my heart holds, yet also what buoyancy my soul nurtures. My painfully endearing resilience.
To write or not to write…?