is this writing??

I know this may seem strange to anyone who has read my blog but I do aspire to be a writer, it doesnt show in the quality of my writing here as far as I can tell but its something I have put some effort into over the years, even going as far as putting stuff into a proper order with a story outline, research done etc but I never get as far as finishing things, I over edit the work I have done and diminish it coninuously until I give up on it. When my BPD was at its height I was completely blocked off from the creative process and didnt put anything on paper, metaphorically speaking, at all. I have begun to write my poetry again and even some of my so called rants which are mostly just bitching about stuff with some humour added to make them palatable, otherwise it would be like a tirade of views akin to Hitler or Ian Paisley.

So I am now doing these things and as you are well aware I am blogging, which some say takes some creative intent in the first place, but does it?? I see this as a form of diarising my life and thoughts so dont really need to fall back on my imagination to write anything, I feel or think about something and then write it here, its that simple isnt it? I sat and started to write yesterday afternoon, I set myself up in a comfortable chair, had a long playlist of old school grunge to listen to and fired away. It started easily enough I was on page two in a moment and what I wrote was sensible and quite amusing even if I do say so myself. I continued in the same vein and thought I was on a roll, but then I stopped and started to read it back and I couldnt suffer what I had done, it wasnt that it was bad, I dont think it was its just I didnt feel it was good enough for anyone else to read. and thats the nub, I have a shyness that doesnt exist in my normal life, I have even had the cringe worthy experience of having someone read my poem aloud to the people who I wrote it for, and survived so why do I feel so shy with the rest of my writing?

The fact I am writing these words, confident that hardly anyone reads them, and do not feel any reticence or fear shows I can do it. The only factor I cant get into is do I regard this as writing in the same sense and if not why, these words could concievably be read by anyone anywhere and they even have the option of commenting on it, slating me if they felt like it, its never happened but I am not immune to the knowledge it could, and yet I write. I tell myself that this is easy, even therapeutic, where I was used to emptying my emotional garbage in a room of fellow sufferers week in week out I now have short space once a week where I may get a some of it out but the majority stays locked in my head, so this is my space, whether thats what its supposed ot be for I never really paid in any thought, its what I do and thats that. So this is writing I guess and in some ways theres a creative edge to it, I do have another blog dedicacted to prose, so I must want to be read even if I cant quite convince myself the work is worthy of anyone elses attention. In putting these very words into the blogosphere I am doing what I have always yearned to do and that is express my thoughts and imagination to others, no its not the same as writing novels, which is a my dream but it is a forum where I get to use the brain instead of doing what usually happen, which is the brain uses me, becomes my task master in a hellish situation where feelings and emotions are cut out and I just do.

if in reading this you see something I’m missing, please feel free to let me know, if what i do isnt writing in any proper sense I need to know, and why would be good to know as well. I cant read this blog back to myself before publishing as I would most likely remove large sections or even delete the whole thing so here it stays for prosperity.