I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a writer. For a long time, I romanticized the idea as I grappled with the idea of devoting yourself to the written word, pouring your heart out and bearing your soul to the world. But, let’s be honest, sometimes it’s not as grand as all that. Sometimes, it’s just about telling a story, entertaining: escapism. I should have known.
So I would sit in my tiny dorm room, hunched over my laptop, wondering what to write about, too afraid to touch the keys for fear of making a mistake, which only made me feel like a failure for not having written anything, let alone something of value. I came to fear the blank page, the computer screen would just glare at me, and if I did manage to get anything down, I would immediately edit my work into oblivion. Nothing felt genuine, nothing felt right.
And then one day it hit me: I can’t go on calling myself a writer if I don’t write! (A shocking realization, to say the least.) Sure, I had all these ideas floating around my head, but I had yet to really commit them to paper. So today I am resolved to end this odd strike with myself, and write every day, good or bad, inspired or not.
So here’s to a brand new day as a writer, and a blog to go with it.