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Planting Trees of Words

So, I still didn’t make any progress with Magic Inc. this week, but I did spend a little time typing and revising Miss Masquerade. It went well. How much easier it is to revisit and reword something else than to work on writing the ending chapters of Book Two. The ending that will break my heart and put me at risk of being ever closer to releasing my next book. The book I’m scared the world will either hate or ignore, with no room in-between. That’s what my anxiety tells me. That my writing is either worthless or worthy of hate. That people will cut down the tree I planted with heart and soul and watered with every fragile, broken part of me.

Still, it’s funny how I relate better to Sapphira now than I did when writing the first draft. Her apathy. The fragile numbness she uses as a shield. It’s much easier to keep living if you don’t feel anything. I’ve never been able to not feel. Everything cuts me too deeply. But I’m more numb now than I used to be. The nature of the world has made me fear again. Made me afraid to love. Afraid to love myself. Afraid to love others. Afraid to believe in the saving power of love I’ve always sworn by. (Because another birthday is approaching and love still hasn’t come to save me. Or come to make me want to save myself.) And afraid to love my writing. My world. My former secret place. Publishing has, in some ways, taken all the joy out of writing from me. The fear has struck so hard that I'm nearly numb to everything else.

And yet... I watched this video today. It made me cry and think deeply about creating and sharing ourselves through art. I feel like maybe it was trying to tell me something important. I remember when I used to be more than willing to break myself open for my writing. And I knew then that not everyone would understand. How could I not know that after growing up with bullying the way I had? But it didn't matter. I had to tell my stories anyway. It hurt more not to. Now I've become too accepting of the numbness if it protects me. Now I cut down my own trees of words before they've even had time to grow. And I'm not sure how to stop.

I think it's all connected. My fear of love and my fear of baring my soul in writing. I used to love with abandon, too. Nothing ever came of it. And I'm glad. I want to wait for the right person. I don't want to get entangled in something that will ultimately be unfulfilling. So, it's better that my heart doesn't escape as easily as before. But I have to put my love somewhere. I have to put my heart back into my work. Until the right person shows up to earn it.

I want to plant my trees with hope and not fear. Not for anyone else. But welcoming of anyone else who's willing to love them.