shakespearemom

“We may affirm absolutely that nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion.”

Okay, so I don’t have the source for this…but it’s certainly true for me. I’ve realized that, since moving to Seattle, I’ve kind of shut off the emotions which feed my nature (I’m a very emotional person in general–just ask my hubby). Whether to protect myself, or to deal with the state my life is in–the interminable sending off of writing, only for it to be rejected; the interminable football seasons; being at home with kids all day; interminable loads of laundry; interminable sinks of dishes; interminable everything–I’ve closed myself off emotionally, so that I don’t have to care so much about all of it.

Only now, with my husband’s help, I’m breaking through all the stoic walls I’ve placed up, and it’s often cool, but sometimes really ugly. Yesterday I was on the way to a playwrights group I had just joined, and it was the first time I’d actually been able to make a meeting. And I started sobbing in the car, like my life was ending. I drove back home, and sobbed all over my husband, telling him I just wasn’t ready to be rejected anymore–I’d just have to stop writing, stop trying to be someone I was never going to be. I was tired of trying and failing.

And my husband did the best thing–he told me there was no pressure, but I would really like going, and he helped me deal with the sobbing, get back into the car, and go. And the meeting wasn’t bad at all. It was kind of refreshing, really. I hadn’t been to a writers group in months (in years if you count writers groups I didn’t start up myself), and I hadn’t been around fellow playwrights since I’d lived in Kansas.

And I realized on the way back why I’d been crying. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to be a writer. It wasn’t because I thought I wasn’t capable–or even talented going on brilliant (yes, I do have moments when I think I’m brilliant). It was because I was truly passionate about my writing–as passionate about it as I am about my children. I want to be a writer so desperately, and now that the walls are coming down, the passion for it is welling up, and it’s sometimes overwhelming.

You might say that I already seem passionate about writing…but you have no idea. Intensity is my nature, so I may end up blowing the top out of this whole writing thing (as soon as I have a working copy of Word, that is–drat!).

What makes you passionate? (And I don’t mean steamy….) What is your passion?

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