Write Or Wrong?

I was thinking about the writing I have been doing. I was caught up in the idea that I have to accomplish some things, that started to feel, well, forced. I had put all this pressure on myself about what I thought should be expected instead of what I actually wanted to do. Originally I wrote for me, just simple little thoughts or stories that were floating around in my head. Since everything was in a spiral notebook and no one saw them, it didn't matter what I wrote. Once the book came out, I started to feel all this pressure to write another book. The truth is the first book came out of writings just like this. It started out as a few paragraphs on a few pages which turned into a book. Writing the second book became this thing for me which felt a whole lot more as if I were working at a job, where I was clock watching, then the writing I had grown to love.
It seems funny to me that the one thing I love doing had morphed into something I now dreaded. I would sit at my computer and feel completely stagnant, when just a few years ago I would sit and write until my hand felt as if it were about to fall off. I had to take some time to figure out where I had gone wrong.
I belong to writing groups and I watch them talk online about their "process". Most are prolific writers who crank out books, the same way I crank out pot roasts for dinner. One writer produces about three books a year. She writes her books for hours on end, novels about murder mysteries, love affairs anything that can be named she puts into plot form. Most of the writers in the groups write fiction. They help each other with plot twists, technical details and historical facts to bolster their stories. My little dog and pony show didn't seem to fit in on any level. When asked what I was working on, I carefully put that I blog about everyday events. As an essayist, I write about life stuff. I swear to you I heard crickets chirp after I wrote that. No one made a single comment or gave even a fragment of helpful advice. I got nada, nothing, as I waited for a response. Eventually one person wrote that they could not relate to "bloggers". In order to spare myself any further decline in my confidence I slowly backed away from the "writing group".
The question became, if all I wanted to do was write, why did I feel so wrong about it?
Preconceptions can be a dangerous thing. How we are perceived, what is expected, the unnecessary stress that can and often does happen to those who produce anything from their imagination can stop the creativity in it's tracks.
All this "thinking" led me back to a story about a teacher I had in high school, my English teacher, a rotund woman with a bad dye job and a fierce attitude. I was taking advanced English classes being on track for college. I had no inclination of being a writer back then. I had no idea what I wanted to be. I took the necessary classes allowing for the maximum amount of choices later on. This round, Weeble shaped teacher was tough. She was palatable if she like you, and completely distasteful if she didn't. She never got along with my straight "A" sister, but for some unknown reason she was entertained by me. In her class we explored writing of every type. We were expected to write long, double spaced, typed papers about what we had learned. I cranked out my papers much like I did all of my homework, begrudgingly with little or no forethought. On a few occasions we were allowed to write stories about whatever we wanted. It was there, in that space of freedom where I shined. She would read my stories, correct what errors existed, but she was always generous with my grade on those particular assignments. There was this grading thing, that only she did, if we made an unacceptable grammatical or writing error on any paper, that made most of us shake in our shoes. She would not just put an "F" on your paper and flunk you for the assignment. She had this saying "Fatal Error" and she would mark a giant "FE" on your paper. If the error was particularly egregious or offensive she would put exclamation points after it and point it out in class. Those were the moments I wanted to live under my desk and never come out. Failing was bad enough, but to receive a "Fatal Error", well, my friends, it was akin to tucking your dress into your underwear and walking around town. I did some of my best praying in her classes.
Ever since my first experience with the "FE" grading system, I became riveted by the notion that a mistake could be fatal. We all know that video killed the radio star, but what error could I possibly make as a writer that would terminate my talent?
Recently, I think I know the answer to this quandary. I started doing things with my writing which actually took away from my talent, instead of building on the skills I already have. I would love to tell you that my second book will come out soon, but the truth is I don't want to write books. I am an essayist. I want to write essays. If one day I have enough essays to make a book, as in the same way I produced my first book, then so be it, but all this pressure to write books, well, I find it too unsettling for me. I am a writer because I write, it's what I do and the way I think. Some people like to take pictures of their vacations, I like to write about them. I am not a writer because of a degree I have, or because someone told me I was. I am a writer because I write, because I can't exist without writing.
If the fatal error exists in the idea that I am not focused on the writing I want to do, but rather what I feel I am obligated to do, then the answer here is easy. It's time to let go of the idea of a second book and focus on being an essayist, which is what I have been doing for the last several weeks. Whether or not I ever write another book is something I no longer want to think about. I love writing this blog, working at the college, answering my "Dear Kellie" letters. These are the things I love doing, so these are the things I will focus on.
My mom, my biggest fan, said to me, "I have made copies of all of your blogs, and they now fill a binder. That should be your next book." I smiled as she told me how she painstakingly copied and bound everything I have ever put into print on this blog. She also told me how she has kept the cards and letters I have written her through the years, laughing at all the silly stuff I have sent or given her. When talking to her about the pressure of producing another book, she said something I remind myself of when I feel as if somehow I have failed. "Kellie, you should see how thick your next book is. The binder is full of your writing. Your second book is already written."
The idea that my second book is already written and waiting in the wings until I am ready, takes all the unnecessary pressure I had put on myself and makes it disappear into the atmosphere, like steam from a boiling pot.
I had originally put the changes I wanted to make about my idea of what kind of writer I was on my resolution list for 2012, but after talking to my mom, I see I can already cross that one off.