Writing is really weird.
But it’s weird in good ways.
Some times I sit here and I think something, and then I write it out, and the most amazing thing happens… people read it! If I post it to one of the other blogs I write for, sometimes tens of thousands of people read it.
And I don’t really know what to do with that.
On the one hand, it’s really cool. In fact, it’s about the coolest thing I can think of. It’s what I have wanted to do my entire life, and now I am doing it. Me. Of all people, me.
On the other hand, it’s really scary.
I’ve never heard of a self confident writer. I’m sure there exists one somewhere, but as a lot, we are a doubting group. We are always our worst critics. And for every high we get from sharing our words, we have thousands of moments huddled in corners, scared to show our faces to the light.
And the thing with writing is that we do it without knowing where it is going. Most of us (myself most definitely included) don’t have people knocking down our doors begging us to write best sellers. There’s no guarantee that our words will reach anyone at all. And if they do, what will people think? Will they be welcomed and enjoyed, or will we be humiliated, metaphorically standing in front of a classroom in only our knickers like that dream so very many of us have.
And then there’s the whole issue of blogging in general. There’s less of a filter in this medium. For the most part, there is instantaneous publication. I think a thought, I write it down, I hit the little blue button, and Bam! Out it goes into the world. With the other sites I write for, there is a slight delay. But I tend to get writer’s amnesia. I forget what it is that I write as soon as I have written it. It’s kind of like childbirth. Once I go through the experience, it’s erased from my memory.
I’ve considered writing in other formats. I’ve considered freelancing. I’ve (ever so briefly) considered fiction. Those felt a bit more comfortable on the one hand. There’s a bit more distance for me. I can hide behind characters and say that it’s not really me.
But on the other hand, that’s now what I want to do. I don’t want to write about someone else’s topic, and I don’t want to take the time or effort required of fiction. I want to think my thoughts and share them unfiltered.
And that is absolutely and completely crazy. Who opens their minds and shares what’s in them? Especially to people they know. After all, I have no problem writing for other sites for strangers. I wouldn’t care if a hundred million strangers read my deepest thoughts. But a handful of people I know? That’s as scary as any precipice I can imagine.
I’ve been thinking about this writing life lately. It gives me a high. In so many ways, it is exactly what I have always wanted to do. I feel blessed beyond measure. And yet I feel silly and frivolous.
And I guess that’s just what it is. I guess maybe those tough parts don’t really go away. Maybe we just get better at dealing with them?