Onward.

Whenever I tell someone about my blog - and an admission that I even have one is actually pretty rare - I sort of feel as if I've just walked up and, of my own volition, laid my head down at the guillotine.  At times this seems like a silly reaction to have - after all, I put myself out there of my own accord, right?  But then in other moments, I think, well of course it's a normal reaction.  I don't think I could stop writing or thinking like an editor or writer if I tried...it's a love and passion buried too deep in my veins to disappear and yet, as far as I can tell, writing will still and forever feel like one of the most vulnerable acts I could ever commit.

Which, when I think about it, is probably the exact reason why I like it so much; why I enjoy reading other writers as much as I do, why I could talk about books and writers and essays and journalists always.  And then some more after that.

I took a writing class earlier this year. It was a workshop of sorts and we were required to share our short stories with the class twice throughout the session.  I am here to tell you that anyone who says they aren't nervous about handing over ten printed pages of a world and a story they've created all of their own volition to be critiqued and analyzed by their peers is most likely a very, very good liar.  (Or they might just be a pompous asshole.)  Because it all goes back to that baring of the soul, right?  Good writing is supposed to unnerve you, to make you think, to make you feel something you might not have otherwise felt.  But to get there...well, like I said.  Guillotine. 

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I've written here before about the yoga classes I have come to love, how much I look forward to certain nights of the week when I know my favorite instructor will be leading the class.  While I'm not exactly the next yogi-wunderkind, I can usually hold my own in most yoga classes; I can at least attempt most of the more challenging poses.  Except for headstands.  Nothing is harder for me to do than those damn headstands.  I have tried and tried and tried again.  If I have help - a wall to lean on, and someone to push my leg off of or someone to guide my second leg upright, then I can do it.  And once I'm up - or upside down as it where - I can hold my own, staying straight and balanced.  But damn if I don't have a hard time each and every single time I try and do a headstand on my own.  It's frustrating for me because it's so hard; because every class when we're told it's headstand time I know I'm about to face this challenge yet again.  

The good thing - the silver lining I suppose - is that even as I stand flipped over in my awkward was a downward dog but now it has morphed into a weird sort of crow pose that isn't yet a headstand, I still know I'm not going to quit.  That one day - even if it's years from now - I am going to do this goddamn headstand.  I will get there.  I just have to remember to keep at it.  And be patient.  And to try YET again.  I'll probably fall, I'll most likely fail.  But I'll get back up and I'll try it again, even when I'm muttering under my breath about how hard can it really be...because that's just the sort of person I am, I suppose.  And without sounding too arrogant, I think that's one of the things I like most about, well, me.

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Which I guess is how I think about my writing too.  I love it too much to ever stop - even when I've got a million other things that are demanding my attention or pulling me away from even forming a single coherent sentence in my mind.  There are days when I couldn't find inspiration if it was sitting in right in front of me...and other moments when I can't grab a pen fast enough lest I lose the thought that has been percolating in my brain since the moment I woke up that morning.

During the last session of that writing class I took last winter, my classmates and I were standing around saying our goodbyes at the end of the night when one man came up to me.  He and I had spoken a bit here and there, he was an older gentleman, recently retired and ready to focus on one of his long neglected hobbies of writing.  When he approached me I thought he was just going to say goodbye and wish me well.  Instead, he looked me right in the eye and said, "I really hope you keep writing, Kelli.  You have a way of capturing world-weary irreverence with hope.  And it's good.  It's really good stuff."

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I find we humans, not wanting to seem boastful or too proud, have a way of shrugging off this sort of a compliment.  We dismiss it as just being too kind or too nice, explaining ourselves away more often than we should.  This man's compliment took me by surprise, of course, but I won't sit here and tell you it didn't make my night, my week, my month.

We have to keep trying, right?  We all have to keep going.  To keep working at whatever we're passionate about, at whatever keeps up motivated.  

That's where the good stuff dwells after all.  And we've all got it somewhere buried down in there, down in the juicy spots of our hearts and minds.  I know it.  We just have to be patient enough to find it.