It's that feeling of driving past the house you grew up in, except this time the door is open and no one is home. I haven't blogged (or written anything for myself) in ages. Well, not quite. I did blog about a recipe or two sometime last year. In high school, when I was just starting to find myself as a writer, so much so that I would go on to become an English major, a Language Arts teacher-- it all began with a blog. Xanga, believe it or not. In the journey of my dad's battle with cancer is my own journey of writing truly. I adored my literacy mentors whose style I tried to emulate with my own experiences. I wrote in college, too. Poured my philosophies and perspectives into the dozens of papers I had to hand in to professors who actually seemed to read, enjoy, and respect my work. And then I graduated. And moved to Florida, for a guy who would leave me a month later. I became a teacher. But I stopped writing. Why?
Life gets busy, I suppose. I lost track of that part of me somewhere in that time of settling down, starting a career, finding and marrying my husband. Buying our first home. Getting a different job to avoid a costly, time consuming commute. But here I am, jealous of another Betsy in another state who is a middle school English teacher like myself, who knows what it means to read Hatchet and love and hate it at the same time. I'm jealous of her words and vocabulary that I haven't used because I've been teaching sixth graders and I'm married to a math teacher. I need to get back into writing.
After all, I did once receive awards and scholarships for my words. Once. Feels like a long time ago with a different self, now.
It's like driving by the house I grew up in, and no one knows I'm here. The door is open and nobody is home.
Will I stay?
betsy joy
