I wrote a pretty nasty essay yesterday about what it felt like to have a sibling that wasn’t always on my side. I was writing about one of my siblings whose unexpected death has become a reality I feel I need to explore because grief is not an emotion I feel when I think about her passing. I didn’t go back and read the essay this morning before I deleted it because I can remember almost word for word what I vented in it.
This blog is meant to be a blog about improving my writing. Yesterday’s essay actually belonged in a personal journal concerning personal growth. I am not reaching the audience I need with this particular blog, granted I haven’t been writing long in it but I feel very disappointed. In order for my writing to improve, I need to be focusing more attention on it and yet I find I can always think of something more tangibly productive to do in place of sitting and writing and re-writing a sentence until it comes out correctly.
These days I am reading the kinds of writing that does not uplift me, entertain me, or make me question my personal growth. Instead I am reading books filled with darkness and wondering whether the authors experience (either in the past or in the present) the darkness or have such incredible imaginations that they can create believable, relatable characters that have a story to tell and tell it. My goal is to make my writing irresistible to my ideal reader but I think I still need to focus some thought on who exactly I want that to be: the grandmother who balks at bad language and the loss of manners or the brave and bold millennial who is experiencing a completely different world than the one I grew up in.
More reading is in my future, that is something I can say for sure. Perhaps instead of writing in my 6 blogs, I should simply write, write, write in a journal!
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