I am getting very tired of the 30-day Creative Fire writing challenge.
I have been trying to work with it. I read through the prompts – she gives four or five, all related, each day – and try to choose one or two that I can talk about with truth and a little humor, without baring my soul. I skip around to other topics: Thursdays I write about art; Sundays are devoted to the “52 Lists Project”(which I am loving, by the way); other days, I just throw in a random post about the weather. I’m not a stickler. I have a whole year of daily blogging yet to do: I can take my time getting through one challenge!
Still, even though I’m not doing it thirty days in a row, I’m sick of it. It has taken on a soul-searching, “let-us-all-weep-together-in-our-new-awareness” feel, and I hate it. I cringe at the topics, and struggle to find a way to bring them from the realm of what would be discussed in an encounter group, to something I feel comfortable writing about.
Those of you that regularly read what I write have a lot of information about me. I don’t shy away from true stories, even when they make me look ridiculous, or reveal the stubborn meanness that I wish was not a deep-seated part of my personality. I can write about my deepest sadness or my biggest blunders.
I get squeamish, however, about public revelations that should happen only in a confessional, or on a psychiatrist’s couch. Now, I have never been on a psychiatrist’s couch, but I can tell you honestly that when in the confessional, I go with the assumption that the good Father knows exactly who’s on the other side of that screen, and I word my confession accordingly. I never have been very good at that level of sharing. Or, maybe more accurately, sharing at that level.
So, while I take the time to wrap my mind around the latest prompt, I’m taking a break from the whole challenge. Oh, I’ll finish it eventually. I have an entire year, after all.