Sometimes I Write Crap

I’m having trouble finding the words to start this entry.

I’ve read so much brilliant writing lately, and now it’s my turn. And I don’t know what to say.

I can’t help but compare my writing to everyone else’s — whether I think theirs is better or worse.

I can’t help but get sucked into framing my article the exact way as the one that got 10,000 hits, making me feel increasingly awkward while I try to piece it together.

I feel good about what I write when I’m not cognizant of what will happen once I’m through. I’m typically very happy when I’m not writing for anyone else.

But that’s selfish, right?

After all, if I have the ability to communicate effectively through words, it’s my duty to share my knowledge and passion.

I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed right now. Maybe I’ll just skip today.

No, I need to finish. I have to write something.

I’m stuck between noticing others’ writing by a means of self-assessment and self-deprecation — most notably, the latter.

I want to do well. I want people to read. I want people to know who I am and what I stand for. If for no other reason than to simply acknowledge my existence.

This writing thing is scary, though. It’s so raw. Much like life.

If I put myself out there and I’m not accepted, then what happens? Am I able to continue this way? Keeping everything inside and unable to share openly?

I’ll just write from a frame of certainty — like I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ll throw in a lot of “you should do this” and “you have to do that”.

I hope everyone skips over my hypocrisy, forgetting the blatant vulnerability I wrote with in my last post. The one I didn’t think anyone would read. I really hope no one calls me out on my bullshit pushing this overarching tone. It’s unfitting enough as it is.

But I have to get my point across — any point across — so I can be heard. So I’ll appear stern like that one writer.

This other writer seems so authentic, though. And people love her. Dammit, I’m torn.

What would I say if no one were reading?

What would I say if everyone was reading?

I know what I could do. And depending on the result I wanted, I know what I would do.

But let me just be present here. And see what I want to do.

I want to let this out.

I’m not helping anyone, especially myself, by keeping this inside.

And so I’ll just write. Unfixed on the outcome. Knowing that if I’m pushing for a particular result to unfold thereafter, what I write won’t be my own.

And therefore, it will be crap.

If I write as me, it may still be crap but I can take full ownership of it. And therefore change it. Improve it — keeping hope alive.

As long as I’m working with the truth, I have a chance.

The minute I lose my identity, I lose my reality.

Even if the truth is, I’m scared. I’m nervous. I’m anxious. I’m wildly unsure.

I trust that type of worry can be related to. I trust people can tap into that little kid inside them who never left. Who actually still calls a lot of the shots.

If I admit all that, I might not feel so alone.

I’ll actually be connected.

Which is all I ever wanted.

So let me remove these limits I keep placing on myself, and just write…

Write about how terrified I get the moment I sit down in front of the computer.

Or how anxious I get checking the feedback — or lack thereof — I get on social media.

Or how high I get when someone says something kind, and how low I go when someone shares what I don’t want to hear.

This is my truth.

I’m human.

I’m not perfect, and no matter how hard I try, I never will be.

I don’t even say that to spite anything. It’s just the truth.

And in distinguishing this, somehow I feel so much better.

It gives me hope. Pushes me to keep at it. To continue trying my best.

Knowing I’ll never make it to my perceived promised land unless I create the kingdom right here in front of me.

Where love lives. And joy. And passion. And faith.

Truth.

And the truth is, sometimes I write crap.

But to me, this isn’t it.