During my breaks at work the other day I decided to just bite the bullet and write something even though I had no inspiration. I couldn’t help but think about how difficult writing is and decided to write about that. I decided it wouldn't do me any good sitting in my notebook so I post it here now for all to see... Be gentle with it...
I can’t even get started. I’m sitting here, nervously twitching, trying to come up with a way to start this bit about how difficult and scary writing can be. The irony, I’m sure, would not be lost on anyone. I’m having a lot of trouble with this very sentence I find myself currently writing. My forearm is tense and sore as if I’ve been working out all morning. My fingers are gripping the pen so hard that my fingertips are growing numb and I can feel calluses begin to form. Worst of all there is a voice in my head telling me...no actually...screaming at me that this literary and creative labor is all in vain and that people will only care about it enough to harshly judge me and I have to strain and stretch my internal ears to try to hear the meek voice in the back of my brain telling my hand what to write. That last sentence took nearly 15 minutes to get down on paper.
It’s no longer plausible to think of this as something I want to do. I don’t want to be a writer anymore. I need to be a writer.
Just getting a clear thought or idea down on paper can sometimes feel like a Herculean feat. you have to fight off your inner demons with one hand while trying to mine parts the best of yourself and hope scraps of it will translate onto the page. I have to imagine that most writers have this self-doubt. Most probably feel better equipped for battling demons than I. Right now it feels like I’m trying to fend off legions of the unholy with a plastic spork. Perhaps with more experience comes more efficient and deadly weapons. Maybe we are all stuck with just the same weapon and I can only ever hope to become Sporkmaster (there can be only one). Perhaps some people don’t have that angry doubtful voice at all. It seems as if I have far to many questions. (At this point in my writing I have about 5 lines full of half started sentences and partial thoughts, all of which I scored through with my big black pen).
...and there’s that doubt again...
Does it ever get easier to spill your guts and expose yourself to an audience? It seems like it would be absolutely terrifying every time. Is the trick to become immune to judgment or accepting of it? Maybe a bit of both; I don’t know. It’s probably like everything else in life. You just have to do it. You have to grit your teeth and swallow your fear and put yourself out there.
I feel like I need to say more but I have no idea what to write. I had other plans for this entry but I couldn’t start so I wrote about how I couldn’t start. What a strange kind of therapy this has been.
Can I call myself a writer yet?
