I’m afraid I’ve become a sayer rather than a doer. This wasn’t my intent. In fact, it was just the opposite. This blog was, in my eyes, a way for me to write on a regular basis; a stovetop on which to whip up tidy, complete meals and instant satisfaction. But in my forage for nourishment, it may have instead become a fridge full of leftovers; empty calories and unfulfilled dreams. Ironically, a little like my own cooking.
Speaking of mad kitchen skills, my husband and I had a lovely meal the other night, me nowhere near the oven. We cozied up in a wonderful, local restaurant. I sat taking in a view of the glistening ocean, a few glasses of robust vino and, a little later, an off the cuff comment; “You write too much about writing. You should, you know, write a novel (again) or something,” he said.
I won’t lie; it didn’t come as a shock. I have, in the very back crevices of my noggin’, felt a pang of recognition regarding this every time I start a new post.
He’s right, I do write about writing…a lot, but I feel I’m moving forward, albeit in baby steps. Perhaps this is how I’m finding my way, a cookbook of sorts.
I enjoy writing these posts immensely. I take great pleasure in imagining that I’m honing my skill and revving my engine. I cherish the fact that I may be of some slight inspiration to others who are attempting to follow their hearts and fulfill their dreams. I feel like I’m doing something about the direction in which I want my life to head. All good things, yes? Yes.
He’d second-guessed himself the moment it was out; worried he’d smothered the struggling fire of hope only just beginning to catch in my heart.
But I can only see the positive in my husband’s observation. A touch of lighter fluid always fuels a flame.
It means my subject matter has been clear, my blog has a theme (who knew), and (this is the best part) he’s actually been reading my posts. Hope burns eternal.