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But I guess I’m okay with that.
Fear and dismay come first. Courage is staring down the blank page, willing the floodgates of story to burst forth. The words sometimes come in a stream of emotion, while other times I need to coax them out. Guilt is timidly fleshing out your emotions through writing, convinced deep down no one cares about your feelings.
What is a good writer? I have wondered that for so long the question has all but lost its meaning. I have read great works of literature that transported me to other worlds, and I have also read the words of authors I was told were great but who failed to inspire any emotion in me. I have dived headfirst into long works of investigative journalism that taught me more about the world than any college class and also personal memoirs that were amateurish but honest and raw.
Whatever a good writer was, I was not one. Sure, good enough for college essays and social media captions, but not “literature good”. I embarked on literary projects that I quickly abandoned. Not because I lacked discipline or clarity or skills, but because I simply could not stand up to the vast wall of fear that overwhelms me whenever I sit down to write.
Even though I have always wanted to be a writer and I have always written, I have also always struggled with the concept of making a living…