I'm doing it again.
Yesterday was spent reading through old posts here on afterthought and on my archaic, only two of you read it, not much was said but lots of words were typed blog called soup de jour (spelling mistake was intentional; I think I thought I was clever). Last week, without warning or forethought I dove into a box of old journals; caught myself up on the younger version of me.
I've mentioned before that one of the reasons I love writing is because of the way it serves to remind, console, or show growth. But something happens to a girl when she reads a half-decade of blog posts plus a decade's worth of journaling. She starts to notice patterns. Awkward, silly, obvious, stagnated patterns. As if the younger version of me has been ruling all along and I've failed to notice. As if I haven't changed at all since early adolescence.
So I'm the same as I was. My habits are unreformed. I still don't exercise and have yet to give up sugar. Whenever I go for a manicure the soft-spoken Taiwanese girl still says "Ooo...shaawt!" My heart still chooses flight when things get hard. I often decide my writing is crap and there's no point in continuing. Once a year, I boldly proclaim I am leaving the world behind so I can write books. I have not yet finished a book. I still don't think I'm a good enough writer to write things people will read.
Where was I. Ah yes, the repetition. The "Hey! I've seen this spot before!"
In a little under a month I will be attending a writing conference, one I have been dying to go to for years. Insightful Boyfriend lovingly and fantastically registered me for the conference for my birthday present and I can't believe I get to go. I am so excited I've cried. I am so nervous I've developed a twitch in my left eyelid. To be around all those writers and agents and publishers and authors and people who know good writing... I'm petrified I'll be found out. I have to keep reminding myself there is no "Point and Laugh at the Girl Who Doesn't Belong Here" workshop. I am fighting the urge to put everything I've written into a pile and light it on fire and laugh manically while it burns and discover as a result of my pageless apartment that I am actually quite good at making pots or fixing computers or selling houses and there was really no reason to try that writing thing anyway.