I was reading something the other day, the only thing that stuck out and lingered with me was the relayed message, and not verbatim, What is it in your life which you love so much that you’re willing to let it kill you. The article was a basic run down on jobs, work, hobbies and living one’s life under the regard of love. After reading this, even days later, I wondered what in this world do I like doing so much that it transfers to love — I love it so much that it will kill me. Not literally stick a knife through my heart, but what is it in this world that I will do no-matter-what because I love it so much, I will die happy doing it???? Never minding rejection, time, payment, etc.

As I continue to ponder this killing love, I can’t help but think, “Duh Corrie, Writing.” But is that what I really want, I don’t know, because lately I have not been writing. In fact the more I focus on My Love, the more I can’t write. Nothing comes to mind, and I feel like, “Who would want to read it anyways.” Perhaps this is my problem. I don’t feel it, I don’t feel that what I have to say or write about would matter to anyone but me — when did that start to weigh in.

At this point in my life my writing is all I have to work with, it’s the only thing I can think about, and it’s not just a thought any more. It has manifested and taken over my brain. My mind space feels so small.

I keep saying over and over again, “Write Corrie, write. Write something, anything.”  I am almost sure that I am not the only writer in this world who comes to this point in their journey. However, others keep going, get published and make a career out of it.

Am I scared? Do I not have the confidence I thought I did? Am I changing, or dying inside? Why do I not take the bull by the horns and go for it, give it my all. In the past I lived life by the seat of my pants and wrote about it. Why is it different now? If I love writing so much why am I ignoring it, running away from it? And what is it going to take to let it kill me?

I suppose if I am going to let it kill me, I should stop running from it — easier said than done I’m sure, however, I must not be too far away. The daunting thoughts about practicing and exercising my muscle (writing) are grabbing at my heels. I am realizing that running away is slowing me down, weighing me down, making me more still and lifeless. What do I want, the writing to kill me or the thought of it. When presented in those terms, seems like the choice I will make is obvious. Right?

I’m at my crossroads, let the caterpillar turn into the butterfly.