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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 646431" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>I love having a chance to share it. I really am happy to see it so well received, and I thank everyone who has commented.</p><p></p><p>It means more to me than you could possibly know.</p><p></p><p>That I wrote, that I could do that and loved doing it was so much who the center of me was. As all this began to happen and our family seemed to turn inside out or something, writing came to seem like a pointless exercise in self-indulgence. It seemed to be pretentious and foolish and fraudulent next to the horror (and that is the exact word I mean) of what is real in my life, and in the lives of my kids and grands.</p><p></p><p>Years ago when, healed enough from the way I grew up to consider that anything I might write could have some value other than to take me to that place where writing happens ~ when I got that first story, and thought it was good, good enough to publish, even...I showed it to my mother. She read a page or maybe, two, and threw it aside. "I'm not reading this <img src="/community/styles/default/xenforo/smilies/2012/censored2.gif" class="smilie" loading="lazy" alt=":censored2:" title="censored2 :censored2:" data-shortname=":censored2:" />."</p><p></p><p>Those were the words she spoke.</p><p></p><p>The words a mother speaks have such power. That is why it matters to this day how we speak to our children, however old they are. </p><p></p><p>That is why it matters that we find some way to honestly love them, to take pleasure in them.</p><p></p><p>For their sakes and for our own, it matters.</p><p></p><p>Loving them matters.</p><p></p><p>Anyway, when that happened, I already had the kids and husband was already not happy I was writing so much, instead of momming and wifeing. So, here is the thing. Though I like much of what I write so much, I did not know, really know in the heart of me, that it was anything that mattered, at all.</p><p></p><p>Just something I was reaching too far for, just something pretentious that I did.</p><p></p><p>So healing those pieces of myself that believed what I believed about myself and my writing will be an amazing thing. It was a little bit of a risk to post them, but the site, and each of us here, keep one another sincerely present in what is real, so it was okay to do that. It just is what it is...but understanding that something I wrote could touch another person changes my perceptions of who I am and of what I might be capable of way down deep where it matters what I think.</p><p></p><p>You would not believe how much that matters.</p><p></p><p>Thanks, guys.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 646431, member: 17461"] I love having a chance to share it. I really am happy to see it so well received, and I thank everyone who has commented. It means more to me than you could possibly know. That I wrote, that I could do that and loved doing it was so much who the center of me was. As all this began to happen and our family seemed to turn inside out or something, writing came to seem like a pointless exercise in self-indulgence. It seemed to be pretentious and foolish and fraudulent next to the horror (and that is the exact word I mean) of what is real in my life, and in the lives of my kids and grands. Years ago when, healed enough from the way I grew up to consider that anything I might write could have some value other than to take me to that place where writing happens ~ when I got that first story, and thought it was good, good enough to publish, even...I showed it to my mother. She read a page or maybe, two, and threw it aside. "I'm not reading this :censored2:." Those were the words she spoke. The words a mother speaks have such power. That is why it matters to this day how we speak to our children, however old they are. That is why it matters that we find some way to honestly love them, to take pleasure in them. For their sakes and for our own, it matters. Loving them matters. Anyway, when that happened, I already had the kids and husband was already not happy I was writing so much, instead of momming and wifeing. So, here is the thing. Though I like much of what I write so much, I did not know, really know in the heart of me, that it was anything that mattered, at all. Just something I was reaching too far for, just something pretentious that I did. So healing those pieces of myself that believed what I believed about myself and my writing will be an amazing thing. It was a little bit of a risk to post them, but the site, and each of us here, keep one another sincerely present in what is real, so it was okay to do that. It just is what it is...but understanding that something I wrote could touch another person changes my perceptions of who I am and of what I might be capable of way down deep where it matters what I think. You would not believe how much that matters. Thanks, guys. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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