Fuck all!

 

When I was writing my latest post 'worries of a fake dad' it took me quite a long time to finish it. Which is uncharacteristic. Usually, writing the rough version of a new article takes me hardly any more time than it would take the average reader to read it. I usually know what I want to say, and I just write it down the way I would say it. No complicated 'written language style' phrases or expressions, just plain language, just like you and I would use in any conversation. After finishing the rough version, I need to get rid of the typos, obviously, which may take a little longer. But that is not the point. 

Thing is, when I was writing this specific story, I noticed I was mincing every word, every sentence. Now, the article was very emotional, and I wanted it to express precisely what I meant, as the person I wrote it for is important, and I wanted to support him in a rough patch. 

But there was something else. There was this nagging little voice in the back of my mind, telling me to mind my words. I never even noticed it consciously, but I found I did write a last short paragraph apologising for maybe 'going way over the top'. 

As the story in question was very personal and aimed at one single person, I did not share it the usual way through Facebook, though it is by no means secret. But I felt this was not an article that wanted to be pushed, like maybe this one, because it was not about me. For the most part, at least. Apart from the one whom it was for, I just shared it with a handful of people. I know why I did that. I did not completely feel comfortable sharing such an insight in my mind with the world at large. In the meantime, I did want some feedback, which I am happy to say I received promptly.

One of my handful of readers is a good friend from way back. She privately commented on the story in a very sensitive way. She said she found it a beautiful story and a lovely read. But she ended by telling me my last paragraph made her feel sad. 

I am grateful she said that. It made me stop and think why I would write such a paragraph. But deep inside, I already knew. And it made me cross with myself. I wrote it because of what others might think. So wrong. If I want to be honest and genuine in my writings, I must write what I mean to write, expressing what is on my mind, no matter what others may think - or even say - about it. I need more 'fuck all' moments. If I apologised about the content of an article, I won't do it again. Ever. Only then can I hope to be the free spirit I have wanted to be all my life. About bloody time at 74!