What is it within certain ones of us that causes us to feel as if we have nothing in all of creation to say that is of any consequence to anyone while others seem to think the entire world cares what miserable schlop they ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner, seven days a week?

I remember playing on a teeter-totter with my husband once while in college—isn’t much fun when you weigh twenty-five pounds more than the person on the other end (especially when it’s your boyfriend). One of you is stuck in the up position, the other, of course, in the down. There is very little in-between. You’ll note the word “once” in the sentence above—it was not an experience I cared to repeat.

This is how writing feels to me—no in-betweens. Again, I am stuck at the bottom with too much weight holding me down. It is a tension I didn’t like then, and I like it even less now.

Twenty-five pounds of doubt and criticism. Twenty-five pounds of “No one is ever going to read this—who cares what I have to say?” Twenty-five pounds of unbelief and fear. Twenty-five pounds of self-consciousness and rejectionaphobia.

So why the hell am I still sitting on this teeter-totter? Even my two-year-old son knows when it’s time to get off.

Is it a not knowing when to quit? Or is it finally acknowledging that I can’t?

Those of you who write as well understand the double meaning in the title of my blog. It is not merely that I am trying to replace one creative outlet with another so as to miss singing less. I am trying to find my voice as a writer—trying to determine what I have to say and whether or not it is worth saying. It is thrilling. It is terrifying. It is torturous.

Twenty-five pounds is a lot of weight to lose.

reflection weight writing