What does it mean to be a writer? Is it being published in The Wall Street Journal or Cosmopolitan? Is it having multiple blogs on topics of interest in the online world? Or is it simply writing every day, be it in a notebook, on the computer or laptop, or even a serviette should the muse strike when you’re least prepared.
I’m a writer. I can write it but to say it out loud to an audience is tricky.
And that’s the problem.
And that’s the problem.
If after 20 years of writing for pleasure, I don’t take myself seriously enough to call myself a writer than no one else will either. It’s disappointing. No, I’m disappointed in myself. I’m disappointed in creating ambitious goals but not following through. I don’t call it failure, because I haven’t failed anything if I haven’t tried, but nor have I succeeded.
Maybe that’s where the problem lies. The fear of failure and the fear of success unified. How else can I explain it. The ideas are there. They always have been. But when push comes to shove and the time is to hit SEND, I freeze and feel that everything I have written is utter crap and not worthy of wasting anyone’s five minutes.
But it’s not fair. I’m not being fair to myself. How can I expect anyone else to give me a chance if I’m not willing to give myself one first?
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