I’ve always wanted to write. As far back as I can remember. In fourth grade, after my parents split, it seemed like I wanted to write fiction – plays that my friends and I could act out. I liked creating these worlds where things could be different from mine. Things could be better. Problems could be solved with just the flourish of my pen (we only had typewriters back then. Yes, I’m one of those people who lived before the age of computers. Don’t call me old though, or I may just have to smack you. 🙂 )
Why would anyone want to read what I write? And actually pay for it? When they could read part of my blog and get the same gist of things? Will they think I’m doing it just for the money? What if they hate it? What if it gets bad reviews when I finally put it up there for the world to see? And worse, what if no one wants to buy it??
These are the self-doubting thoughts that immediately start to come to mind when I sit down to actually start writing. I start to over-analyze every sentence, every word I put onto paper (or in this case, my chromebook’s screen). I try to fight through it by just continuing on, knowing I can always edit later. That’s what I would tell others in my situation, so why do I find it so hard to follow my own advice?
What should the book be about? My journey into learning more about myself? My journey through depression? My attempt at minimalization? My drive across this country in a car with five cats and a dog? My 180 degree change from working at a well paying job in the Ivory Tower, to a world where I get paid to clean up after nonstop-pooping rabbits and clean poopy butts with my bare hands every day? (This, from the woman who never wanted to change a baby’s diaper because I thought it was so gross.) Some of these, or all of these? Or something else? Should it just be a work of fiction instead?
I’ve read through books on how to write in the past and usually come away feeling even more self-doubtful. Which scares me, because I know from many therapy sessions that I can sometimes have a very harsh inner voice. It’s one I’ve learned to quiet over the years but from time to time, still rears its ugly head (most recently, just a few days ago at work. I could tell I was being irrational but also couldn’t stop myself from feeling hurt when I knew the people around me were only trying to help, with their words of advice.)
Why do I find it so much easier to let the words flow on this blog than when I start to actually type onto a blank piece of paper?
I’d love to hear any and all thoughts any of you might have on this subject – please drop me a line below, and thank you. Even if it’s to tell me I’m insane and shouldn’t do it, I’ll understand. I appreciate candor in all things, even if it’s sometimes hard to hear or take in at the time.
