I had a gazillion things to do sunday night. Seriously. I didn’t get half of it done AND I stayed up 2 hours past my bedtime because I couldnt stop reading The Pioneer Woman’s Black Heels to Tractor Wheels. Wow, that pioneer woman can write! No wonder she’s won bloggies and written a book and all that! Her love story was riveting. I ended up laying awake during the night, too, comparing myself to her.
Comparing myself? Wait, isn’t that a bad habit I need to get over? Well, yes, but at least it gives me material.
Writing: her writing was amazing! characters spoke lines, things were artfully repeated, and it was all so enthusiastic! Another blogger i follow mentioned recently that she had several topics jotted down that she could work on as posts, but didn’t have the time to do it right. And all this makes me wonder, suddenly, if my writing is good enough. What? I write like I talk, and I talk like I breath. i just do it, no thought, no worries, no stress. But these people .. . they take it seriously. Should I take it seriously? Should I give up and quit blogging because I don’t think I’m a serious writer? Should i consider being a serious writer? Should I consider being a serious something other than whiner? Oh, dear. I don’t have time to think about this (haha good excuse)
Life, the story: her love story WAS amazing . . . 2 perfect people – tall, beautiful, intelligent, confident, secure in the love of their families – meet at a bar and fall in love. Sure, they each have quirks, and she has a very entertaining assortment of insecurities. But really, they are perfect. And so is their story.
But my biggest love story, my second husband? It’s such a different story. We were two (short) broken people, bound together by, well, yes a chemistry which could possibly hold a candle to pioneer woman and marlboro man, but also by a sincere desire to help each other, to save each other and to be saved, to heal each other and to be healed. But not just from loneliness or normal life ‘stuff’ – we’re talking significant PTSD, divorce w protective order, one childhood with beatings and one with neglect and two with significant marital strife, extreme intelligence coupled with real disabilities, and 2 adult lifetimes filled with unmedicated depression.
not a pretty story.
It reminds me of when I read birth stories at the Orgasmic Birth website. I was SO inspired by these stories, I went back and re-read my own birth stories. oh. no. Mine were not like that. Mine were more like this. I even have my easiest one on-line – when I shared it with friends, they were horrified at how painful it sounded . . . but that was the easy one, really! (I dont have a copy of this without hubby’s name, so I can’t link to it right now)
Words. Life. I don’t write because I want to be great at it or be famous for it. I do it because it’s what i do. It’s like breathing. Or maybe sleeping. I feel clearer afterwards.
And maybe someone sees something there, something they like, or something they can use. Or something they can feel superior to, at least.