I think some people are under the impression that because I have
a blog, I am somehow oozing with confidence.
I know I think that about others who write blogs or otherwise publish their
writings. But me, confident? It couldn’t be further from the truth. Every time I post a blog or a poem, I
literally cringe with apprehension. I
reread it three or four hundred times to make sure that it is not stupid. I check and recheck the spelling and
grammar. I check the definitions of
words that I know I know just to make sure I know them. Even after all that agonizing reflection and
self-assurance, I am still convinced that what I have written is in fact,
stupid.
The experience is the exact opposite of confidence. I liken it to standing naked in front a room
of people. It is the uncomfortable
feeling of knowing you are exposed. It
is the slight feeling of shame that maybe you showed too much of yourself. It is a brutally embarrassing, ego crushing
expression of what lingers inside.
So why do I do it?
Writing is one of the few things I ever set out to do
intentionally. I wanted to write. It didn’t matter if I was good or bad at
it. It held my interest when nothing
else could. I wrote for my high school
newspaper and literary magazine. In college,
I sat in a smoky coffeehouse and wrote countless poems about all the wonder and
all the pain and all the hope a young girl could have. There was a post-college period of time when I
had stopped writing. I grew up and gave
up on silly words. I hadn’t written
anything in years. It was after my ten
year class reunion that I took up writing again. I was having a conversation with someone (I
wish I could remember who) and we were talking about careers. I was not yet a teacher at the time and when I
shared that I was in property management, the person said “hmmmm….I just
assumed you would have become a writer or an English teacher.” That comment lingered with me and though I
was at a point in my life far away from any inspiration, I started writing
again and soon after went back to school to seek a career in education. Why had I ever stopped writing or chasing my
silly coffeehouse dreams?
When I think about what I have to give to the world, all
that I can come up with is my work, my words and my love. I don’t have children that will be left to
change the world. I don’t have much of a
legacy to leave. But I do have these
thoughts and feelings that somehow live inside of me. What is the point of keeping them to
myself? All that will do is make me
normal. I don’t wish to be normal,
however uncomfortable and vulnerable and agonizing and embarrassing as that
might be. I don’t wish to be
normal. I just wish to be me.
So go create stuff.
Even if it makes you uncomfortable, do it anyway. If you’re nervous, it means you’re
living. Put yourself out there and see
what happens. The people who truly love
you will love anything you create.
