Do we inherit specific skills from our parents? If we do, then I inherited the desire to write from both of mine. Or, maybe it is something I just learned from them. Maybe both. My dad was a journalist. Mom was an English teacher.  She was also sometimes a poet. Both were English majors in college. My stepdad was also an English major and sometimes wrote things. They all read voraciously, and we were surrounded by books while growing up. The first thing I wanted to be was a writer. Then I took a high school journalism class, which I hated, and that ended my aspirations.

Despite that, I have done writing in one form or another all my life. Everything you can imagine: gardening articles, newsletters, grant proposals, journal articles, scientific papers, technical guidelines, a short memoir, and many kinds of reports. I wrote sermons, the part I loved best about my work as a minister, and I have been blogging since 2012. In the early years of this blog, I wrote faithfully every day. I didn’t try to do this, it just came to me, almost as effortlessly as breathing. I write less at the moment because of my annoying cursor/computer problems on my 1-year-old HP and also because Verizon has not figured out why the hot spot feature on my new phone won’t work. I use that to upload blog posts. Also, I am just in a slower period.

I always have something rambling around in my head. I have written rough drafts about my adventures since retiring 3.5 years ago, but it is nothing I feel compelled to get into publishing shape. I have ideas about a series that would be valuable to other nomads but am not motivated to get started. I have ideas for journalistic articles about issues in the west that could be publishable. However, I am stuck. I cannot seem to take my ideas any further than the initial planning stage. People talk about writer’s block so I took a writing course in hopes of finding some direction. I used to think I was just lazy. Now, I am thinking it is something deeper. Something to do with those parents who contributed to my desire to write in the first place. Here is what I am thinking:

I do not like my parents (who are now gone). I know that seems brutal but it is true. I respect their super high IQs; otherwise, I have contempt for who they were as people and how they raised us. They were selfish and mean. My dad was a narcissist who drank heavily. Last fall, when I was in a dark place, I wrote about them and the problems I experienced, so I won’t elaborate on that again. What I want to focus on right now is how much I don’t want to be like them. This has been a huge driving force in my life. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to be like them. The worst thing you could say to me is that I remind you of one or the other of my parents.

Most of the time I believe that I am not like my parents. I am stronger than either of them and extremely adventurous (ok, some of that is from my dad). I make my own decisions and I act- often impulsively – on my dreams and desires. Those are big differences, many of which really irked my mom who gave up on herself and her goals a long time ago. However, one inescapable similarity remains: I enjoy writing. I love to learn about writing. I love to read. I love language. So that means I am like them in important ways. And I don’t want to be like them, so is that why I hold back on my writing? Is that why I cannot develop things I know will be publishable? These are the people that  I detest the most in this world and the thought of being even a bit like them holds me back. Furthermore, in one of those weird expressions of the psyche, this fear of being like them makes me even more like them. They, too, were born with skills and gifts that they never fully realized because of their upbringing. I am just repeating the cycle. Ugggghhhhhh. I am like my parents and the thought paralyzes me.

And then there is this, the other thing that chokes my creativity. My mom, while supportive on the surface, actually gave endless messages that said, “you can’t”. She made me question if I could really do something. It was subtle because she made a show of sounding supportive, but she had a way of making me second guess myself. I first noticed this when I was studying for the ministry. “You can’t write sermons every week,” she said”. Another time she posed it as a question, “Can you write sermons every week?” About 5 years ago I started training to run a 5 K race. I had been walking them for years and was starting to run. When I told her about running the 5 K her response was, “You can’t do that”. I remember thinking, yes I can you MF,” but I didn’t. She had a way of squelching my ambitions. How often did she say that as I was growing up and how often did it cause me to question myself. Is that voice also keeping me from writing more? I think so.

Knowing is one thing. Overcoming is another. I feel I have the biggest challenges yet: I really need to figure out how to respect the gifts we have in common and allow them to flourish in me regardless of how I feel about my parents as people. I need to stop associating the expression of the gifts with my hate for them. I need to break the cycle if I really and truly don’t want to be like them. And, I need to stuff a rag in moms mouth so she can’t tell me any more, “You can’t.” We all know that we have to stop blaming our parents.

My winter’s work will be to gather some insights and ideas. I have made progress in other areas using cognitive skills and I can apply them here, as well. I can.