Still thinking about it ...

I've been thinking some more about whether I should continue to write. What I've discovered turns out to be rather complex -- but why expect my life to ever be simple?

Here's my thoughts:

• I love to write -- I always have. 
• I've been writing since (as far as I remember) third grade. I'd like to think I've gotten better by then :)
• But I've always liked to show people what I've written as well. Why?
• My writing is personal. For example, this is very personal. I want people to know me.
• As a child, I experienced a certain amount of abuse, with which came what is now known as gaslighting -- being told my observations of being abused were invalid.
• I still silently thank my junior high English teacher for actually reading and liking what I wrote -- especially as my mother would always read my writing and say, "I think your sister writes better." Apparently, she never expressed to my sister that she wrote well, so you can guess what was going on there.
• My junior high English teacher was my lifeline during those years. Truly. I had spent my childhood bullied (for being "weird" -- but not the type of "weird" that encourages teachers to introduce the class to sensitivity training) and this culminated in a horrifying sexual assault which I, of course, didn't report. I will admit that I was at risk for suicide in eighth grade. I will always see writing as my lifeline, but it's nice if someone's holding the other end.
• When I get really stressed, the importance of the second point outweighs the first part.
• Believe it or not, I'm not an anxious person. In fact, usually my stress is because I'm wrestling with tendencies of mine, including:
• need for external validation (probably for the reasons above)
• need to not feel alone/isolated (probably for the reasons above)
• wrestling with perfectionistic tendencies (probably for the reasons above.)

So, in other words, the question "to write or not to write?" gets influenced by the stuff above.  Conclusions I've come to include:

• Recognition from "out there" will never be enough. Why? Because nothing that happens to me as an adult can erase the fact that I had that childhood. "Inner child" stuff is extremely real. As an adult, I'm the only one who can reassure myself when I get in these moods. I just don't know what to say to myself yet.
• I will never know how good my writing is, so I might as well give up trying to do so via Google Analytics (where I got that stat that the average user spends 30 seconds on my site) or book sales.

Now all I have to do is figure out whether the time I spend on writing is worth it ... I'll get back to you.