(another repost from my Tumblr. I wrote this weeks ago but I feel like it’s still pretty relevant to me and I’d like to share it in this blog.)
Looking back, it’s been nearly seven years since I started taking a serious interest in writing. Plus it’s been nearly four years since I started writing for an actual audience (in our school publication). With almost a decade of writing, I can honestly say that I’ve made little to no progress at all.
While it’s true that I’ve learned to construct sentences more coherently and organize paragraphs logically, I still feel like I haven’t grown much as a writer, in that I still associate my writing – and my love for writing – with shame. Yes, even until now I still feel… embarrassed of my writing. Particularly my creative writing. It’s stupid and ridiculous, I know, but all the years of actual writing hasn’t really done much to help me grow out of this immaturity.
Sure, I’m perfectly fine with objective writing (news and feature articles) since I don’t need to put much of myself into those type of write-ups but when it comes to literary writing I grow cold and rigid. Even my literary articles feel superficial, the kind of stories that I don’t invest any heart into. Somehow I’m still terrified of people reading my stories, or even just knowing that I write stories (for fun… even though it involves a lot of suffering). I put a little bit of myself in my stories which is why I feel vulnerable and unsafe whenever someone I know in real life stumbles upon my writing. Not to sound cliche here but I do kind of put up a highly impenetrable exterior so having someone read my stories is like giving them complete access to my heart and soul and basically telling them to destroy everything in sight. It’s melodramatic and unreasonable but try telling that to my anxiety.
Let me try to explain this.
Writing, for me, has always been a solitary endeavor. I write, I post what I write somewhere that no one really cares to read it, then, eventually, I read what I write. Rinse and repeat. On the rare instances when someone actually reads what I’ve written and even reacts to it, I’m genuinely shocked. And after the initial shock comes the low key panic. What did they think of my writing? Are they silently judging my writing and, in turn, judging me? And more importantly, why on earth would they read my writing in the first place?! Questions like those haunt me every time I get a review or a comment and somehow it never gets easier even as the years go by.
Even though most, ok, all of the reviews and reactions I’ve gotten over the years haven’t been “bad” – some could even be classified as “good” – I still cannot wrap my head around the idea that actual people chose to read what I wrote. It makes no sense, it never has. Doesn’t matter if it’s a good or bad review, the fact that there’s actual proof that someone read my story baffles me. In fact, it baffles me so much that I refuse to believe it, which is why I’m only slightly encouraged by feedback.
Unlike other writers, like my best friend Lyssa, I can’t even bring myself to ask someone to read my stories. Not even beta read just… read for any type of feedback. It feels wrong to me. Like it’s something that I shouldn’t do. Like I shouldn’t ask someone to subject themselves to my stupid ass writing.
You see what I mean when I said that I haven’t grown at all as a writer? I still don’t have any confidence in my writing. I’m still so terribly insecure of myself that I don’t even have the guts to make myself be better. And if there’s one thing I know a writer needs to survive, it’s guts. I keep saying that I love and respect writing but I don’t even care a fig about my own.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: if you’re this self-aware, why not actually do something about it? Why not be braver and bolder and actually improve yourself as a writer? Why not finally believe in yourself and in your capabilities?
Short answer: It’s not easy with my perpetually wavering self-confidence.
Long answer: I’m simultaneously idealistic and cynical when it comes to my writing. I know that I’ll never stop growing as a writer but I also know that everyone – including and especially me – has limits and I’m terrified of one day facing my limit and having to bitterly accept my capabilities. I know that I have friends online and offline who I can probably ask to read my stuff but I also know that that they’ll probably – knowingly or not – filter their feedback because of our friendship. And I know that writing is the only thing I know I can do passably well but I also know that, in the long run, that doesn’t matter at all.
It’s my contradicting feelings for writing that have kept me from progressing all these years. It’s because of them that I can never truly put my heart in a certain story because a part of me is always yelling that no one really wants to read that and no one would ever really like it so why bother? I’m constantly just limiting myself and I HATE it so much. I hate it even more because I’m so aware of it. My idealistic side and cynical side are always at odds with each other and, as a consequence, has kept me from really moving forward.
I feel like I’ve been stuck in a stalemate for all the years and I don’t know what to do about it. Actually, I do know what to do, it’s just that I can’t do what I need to do because of my contradicting ideology. Either I accept that I will always just be this mediocre writer who can probably churn out a decent sentence or two once in a blue moon or I do something drastic to free myself of this deadlock and finally – FINALLY – take a step forward.
I really… really… want to be more than just mediocre.