I’m looking out the window in the tower, gazing at the green, rolling hills stretching as far as the eye can see. The clear, blue sky beckons me to walk in the light but I can’t move, transfixed by the beauty of this place.
The walls, thick forbidding stone, cold and rough to the touch, protection from enemies and the elements for hundreds of years. The stairs spiral up the turret, their steps worn down by people long dead.
From the stairway a corridor beckons as echoing footsteps break the stillness. Lining the corridor, suits of armour stand at attention, shadows of the men who wore them once. The guardians seem eerily real and there is a wary expectation that one of them might move.
The great room is at the end of the corridor where women in period costumes serve high tea. Guests enjoy the crackling fire, while they eat and drink in a room rich with history. The walls covered in tapestries and banners, swords and shields, pay homage to past generations. Minstrels make music and guests make merry as they become acquainted with each other.
The guest rooms are welcoming with big, old beds and a sitting area in front of the fireplace. After a long day the thought of a luxurious bath, complete with candles and wine, sounds like heaven.
This place where history awaits discovery and today is forgotten.
I’m tired but excited to start writing. I haven’t been able to write for over a month now. I feel paralyzed by fear of being unable to write well and fear of being judged. You can’t please everyone and when I write I know it. It feels like I put my heart and soul into my writing and then wait for people to like it, hate it or not bother with it.
I wish I knew what I want my blog to blog about. I look at other blogs and they have a theme or a topic and mine is all over the place. I’m trying to find my spot but maybe I’m trying too hard.
In my mind I’m funny but it doesn’t translate from my brain to the page. Something gets lost in translation and I think it’s the humour.
I have subjects I’m passionate about but I don’t want to write about them or maybe I do. I think I just want to write about the way I see life. But I don’t know if I have anything interesting to say that would be worth reading.
My biggest fear is that I don’t have any talent at all and I’m wasting my time. I don’t think that’s true but some days it feels that way.
I love writing and going public is new to me, so I feel like I’m standing on the street naked and people are laughing. The funny side of all this is that as much as I fear people reading what I write, I fear not getting a reaction at all.
I started my blog in February and have yet to see a comment, although people have sent me messages on facebook to give me positive feedback. At first I was afraid to look at my stats and then I couldn’t stop checking them: how many people, from what country, what did they read, why didn’t they comment?
I was grateful at first that nobody left a comment because I wouldn’t have to deal with what they had to say. It’s great if it’s positive but I’m sensitive and I don’t want to fall apart because of negativity. After about a month I wanted someone, anyone, to leave a comment, anything, I don’t care even if it’s nasty.
Is there anything worse than being invisible? When you’re getting negative comments, at least you’re getting a reaction, right?
I can’t stop writing, it’s what I love and when I write I feel free. Time goes by so quickly and I’m present in the moment. It’s easy to live in the moment when I write. I get lost in it unless I can’t think of anything to write.
As I write that I’m in the moment, my dogs hear a noise outside through the open windows. They start to bark and while I’m writing I’m shushing them, stamping on the floor, smacking the table to get their attention which is pointless!