TWO WEEKS until the Retreat on Forgiveness and I need it.
I’m wondering what to do with all that’s happened and whether people like to read sad things. Or am I just another person dumping their stuff on the world?
I know I pushed the envelope a bit, writing some of my thoughts about growing up with an alcoholic parent, but each piece felt right and the collection brought mail from so many different places, I was glad I’d written. Not just written, but shared. Those are two different things.
But what about this current situation? Will I do anything with it? I mean, besides crumble into dust and be blown to the corners of life?
Will I write about it? (In truth, I have already. 120,000+ words)
Will I share any of it? Will I sift out the gems?
Not to be coy, but this is an important part of being a writer, discerning whether writing “out loud” (in the public eye) serves any purpose. I don’t take these decisions lightly.
There are things that belong in journals,
things that belong in private letters to individuals,
things that belong in a public space.
The wise writer knows the difference.
And though I may at the moment teeter on despair, crying endless hours, feeling the past was a waste and the future is absent, I’m hanging on to being a wise writer, or at least giving the appearance of one.
Two weeks until the retreat. I will gain something there, if only a break. You just never know.