Writing

What do you do each day that doesn't contribute to your writing.

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Okay, so maybe this prompt is just badly worded.  I'm going to assume that it is, and answer the question I think it's asking instead.

"Why don't you write as much as you should/want to?"

I could give cop-out answers:  I'm too busy, I'm not inspired, I don't have any quiet space to do it.  But none of those would be true.  I never needed extra time set aside before.  I found it where I could, or made time.  And I've obviously found some, because I'm writing this.  Inspiration isn't so important unless there's some end result I'm going for, and there very rarely is.  And quiet space?  Hah.  I used to sit on the most crowded trains and write, no care for my surroundings or how much noise was in them.  Heck, I used to use crowded spaces as "inspiration," people watching for ideas.  So that excuse really doesn't fly.

So why don't I write more?  One word.

Fear.

Right now is a good example of that.  I find myself not really wanting to explain further.  "I've answered the question, haven't I?"  I justify to myself.  I even walked away from this exercise for 20 minutes after writing the word "fear."  I had to talk myself into coming back and doing this right.  Leaving it unexplained would rather defeat the purpose of this endeavor, after all.  So I'm going to give it a shot.

What in all hell am I afraid of?  Honestly, myself.  I am, as stupid as it may sound, afraid of who and what I think I am or might be.

See, writing has always been very personal for me.  Even when writing fiction, I'm actually writing about some facet of myself.  And for the past few years I've put an inordinate amount of energy into being who I thought I was supposed to be.  Connecting with the thoughts and feelings I have that don't support that facade... It makes it just that much harder to maintain the status quo.  So I stopped writing.  I distanced myself from those parts of myself; packed them up in a box and shoved them into the darkest corner of my mental closet that I could, only pulling them out when I was in the most desperate need for a reminder of what I was hiding from.  I've been doing it more and more lately, wondering...

I guess I convinced myself that doing this was part of growing up, of becoming an adult, like "putting childish things away."  I let people around me convince me that mothers, spouses, providers, just didn't feel like this, or want these things, or think this way.  That if they did, there was something wrong with them, that they were broken, or unfit in some way.  So I've denied myself the most important thing I can imagine -- my own mind -- and it's held me back.

Even realizing why I've tried to shut off my own thoughts and that it may have been the single worst idea on the face of the planet, I'm still afraid.  Even with the contents of that box demanding the attention I've denied them all this time, threatening to break free unbidden, I'm hesitant.  I've done so much hiding from myself.  Do I have the strength, the courage, to embrace the contents of my private Pandora's Box?

I'm coming to the conclusion that I don't have a choice about it anymore.  I cannot hide from myself.  Thinking that I could was the "childish thing" that I should have "put away."  Not the parts of me that make me who I am.