So today has been that kind of day. The kind that leaves me raw, out of sorts, and feeling like I've been run over a cheese grater. It started with some real truth. The last few months connecting with other writers has been phenomenal, because before I felt isolated as a writer.
I live in a small sort of town and there aren't other writers. There are some egomaniacs but these are not the type of writers I long to associate with. They don't have a writers group or critique group, instead they have a monthly get together to stroke egos and read their work.
So today via Twitter someone said, "thanks for putting up with me." That got me to thinking, and I replied, "thanks for letting me in." Very truthful, I've never felt more included in a group. Usually I am on the outskirts. Shyness plays into that in real life to a point, but to another point, there aren't other writers here. We're a different breed all together.
Then I read a post that blew my mind. *Ppppwwwuuu* Because I could relate. I wanted to hug this person and cry all at the same time. I won't go into detail on here because each person's stuff is their stuff, but I could so relate having been in a similar situation. It has affected my whole life.
I have these two separate people inside of me. First the reader, writer, dreamer, and teller of tall tales, the *real* me. Second me is the lesser known real lifer stressing over finding a job, paying my bills, raising teenagers alone, and just all around constantly kicking myself.
I'm going to share one thing that is hard for me with the world tonight. With hopes of being genuine, I don't know how to combine these two people living in one mind. Sometimes I get the idea from people around me, that I need to put my dreams away, grow up, quit dreaming, and be an adult. What kind of life will I lead if I do this? What is life without passion?