E skipped his lesson today again. Of course E had a fight with M, and was upset, but that was not the real reason why he didn’t go to his lesson. Whatever reason it might have been, it was an irresponsible act.

The photo of A and her writing group looked good in the local newsletter. I think of myself belonging to a group of WordPress bloggers. I don’t feel like writing a book anymore; I just want to post my writings to the blog at WordPress, and it’s good enough for me if someone likes it. I don’t know if the bloggers are doing it for writing’s own sake, but I write for my own sake. Having successfully self-brainwashed myself, I feel writing is my responsibility.

The random chance of someone reading my piece of writing is what makes it interesting. The point of writing is never meant to be popular, but the liberation from the process of writing and sharing. Actually I just need to talk to myself, and if I post the piece of writing in public to strangers, I feel a chance of being understood. Everyone wants to be understood and accepted.

The fear of not being accepted is a universal phenomenon. I didn’t think much of anything when I wrote a story about Santa; I just imagined the conversation between Santa and the Christmas tree from my opinion about Christmas, but I ended up writing about the question of human motivation. The questions are always buried in the unconscious, but most people hardly get a chance to find a question, let alone an answer.

When I am not busy, I feel like I have time to do everything I want to do, until I run out of time. I realized that I cannot possibly do everything I want to do. I was frustrated because I couldn’t finish editing yesterday. I know I just have to do it when I find time, but it’s easier said than done.

Sometimes I feel myself being a tricky person as I asked for people’s sympathy unconsciously. I make people feel sorry for me. For example, I’d tell a friend who was coming to visit that I have to clean my home for her visit. Why do I say it when it’s so obvious?

If creativity is about self-expression, why do I care if people don’t like what I write, or if they won’t like me? I just want to keep writing, editing, and posting, but when I think about how my short romantic story might embarrass me, I hesitate to post it. My problem is I’m afraid of being judged or misunderstood. But perhaps most people cannot be honest to others because of this fear of rejection.

The teachers from an editing service encourage me to write, but everyone encourages me in a different way. Every teacher sounds different, and I learned from their comments what “having one’s own voice” means. Having a voice means what one pays attention to and how one expresses her point of view, so I am sure my voice is different from the others’. The only question left is, do I want to be heard? All I know is I feel good about myself if I keep writing.

I went to the carwash in the afternoon before my parents arrived. When the waitress passed me a bag of the food I ordered at a drive-thru, the soda inside it tilted and spilled. Then I spilled a little bit of sauce on my coat as I started to eat in my car. I’ve got to sleep; I worry if I can make it to the piano lesson. Since the kids don’t have school tomorrow, where should we go for lunch?

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