Writing hurts

A year ago, I thought about writing again. Something stirred deep inside me and wanted out.

I walked. I thought. I struggled.

I mentioned this to a woman who walked with me one day. We crossed the 4-lane highway to the bookstore and I browsed around while chewing on the idea of picking up the pen (ok really - 14 years later- its pounding on the keyboard) again. On the way out the words tumbled from my mouth.

"I want to write."

"What on earth do you have to write about?" she replied to me, not a drop of humor in her voice. Nothing in my life could be bad enough or exciting enough in her opinion for me to have anything to write about.

Oh where do I start?

So I wrote to prove her wrong. Only in the end, her words ended up cutting deeper than deep. They still haunt me.

I've realized that there was more to this comment than just her belief I had nothing to write about. It was deep down jealousy. Without going into details, I'm married, a mother, she isn't.

After months of shutting that voice inside me down, I wrote. I wrote a story that brought tears to many eyes. It wasn't my best, but it was a first after many silent years. It was good enough to place in a contest.

I am good enough. I have a story to tell.