I like to write. In fact, I even get paid to write, which is a good gig, if you can get it. I don’t necessarily think I’m always that good at it, but I still attempt it, nonetheless.
However, one of the biggest obstacles to any writer is their own self. We could call it fear, insecurity, self-criticism, or anything else. The fact is, there’s a lot we tend to leave on the table.
I just saw I have 65 drafts on my blog. Kind of bummed at how many ideas I apparently have but never flesh out or finish. I just get so easily distra
That above quote comes from my friend, Jared Byas (good name, that chap), and it caused me to check out my own drafts folder.
I have 127 ideas, thoughts, and posts that have gone unfinished since I created this space over five years ago. That’s not even accounting for the ones I decided to not even bother putting in the drafts section. Who knows how high that number truly is?
I’d like to think that I’m a fairly secure person who knows himself well enough to accept his limitations and embrace his strengths. But I’m kind of a pansy when it comes to writing. Most of my readers and friends laud me for speaking bravely about a few topics—typically my experience with depression and suicide—but truthfully, I’m so scared to even put half of my thoughts and ideas out there in the ether.
The fact of the matter is that unless the words are pouring forth from my fingertips to the keyboard like raindrops on a leaf, providing nourishment and life, I don’t even want to try. (It was excruciating for me to even come up with such a descriptive metaphor like that, because I felt hacky doing it.)
I don’t fancy myself to be a world-changer when it comes to my writing (though I aspire to be), but I have high expectations for whatever work I put out there; as should every person, no matter the field. But so often I’m like that one kid at the public pool who keeps running to the end of the diving board, only to suddenly stop and backpedal, before doing the whole ritual all over again. I’ll get the itch to create something, and then cop out when the time comes to press the “publish” button.
If the craft of writing is like exercising a muscle, then I’m stuck using just the bench press bar with zero plates. (If my weightlifting metaphors don’t make sense, it’s because HAVE YOU EVEN SEEN MY SKINNY-ASS BODY?)
There isn’t really any specific point to this post, other than for me to actually hit “publish”.