I’ve Desecrated Writing
Just 6 posts into my writing experiment, doubt poke its head out of its hiding place and waved at me enthusiastically.
“Are you sure you should do this? You’re really not much of a writer,” it said.
I rolled my eyes.
“Of course I know that, but no one was born a good writer. You have to write your way to becoming better. Not even good,” I muttered under my breath.
“And that’s where I’m headed — Betterland,” I added, just to be clear. My lack of confidence is overwhelming.
“You don’t have much content to offer though,” it insisted.
“Well, I know that as well. Why else would I be writing about you?” I snapped.
Doubt hissed and glared at me, its naked brows twitching and tiny nostrils flaring. Then it dissolved into my brain matter, where it lurked, like it always does.
I desecrated the art of writing
I don’t know how writers churn out posts every day. I don’t know how people write for a living.
The more I write, the more I realize I don’t know. The more I read, the more I realize I don’t write well.
It could be that writing is just not for someone like me, but I like to think that everyone writes differently. While not everyone can write well, write a lot, or write consistently, it doesn’t mean they shouldn’t write.
It’s like sewing. Just because you suck at it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. If you enjoy it, go for it.
Yet part of me thinks I’m desecrating the art of writing just by writing because I think I’ll never write well enough.
I’ve been struggling under this idea that “I don’t write well enough” for a long time. My language foundation is weak, my life is boring. The moment I publish lacklustre pieces (which is all of them), I’m overcome by embarrassment.
This is shit. This is shit. I thought. And I want to stop.
It’s only by sheer understanding and instinct that I’m still writing.
