I’ve been afraid of a few things over the years. When I was little, I was scared of the TV program The X Files and of putting my feet down on the floor for fear of having something or someone grab out from under the bed. While I admit these are typical of childhood horrors, fear most certainly continues into adulthood.
What am I talking about? Well I could mean a lot of things, like fear of failure and inadequacy or the continued longstanding fear of creepy crawlies (some things just can’t be grown out of).
I’m not trying to make a bold statement on the human psyche or the nature of fear – I’m trying to face my own demons.
I raise my hand to it – I’ve had a fear of writing for longer than I am willing to admit. I worried I had run out of things to say, that my style was flawed, or that I was forcing myself into the wrong genre. Why have I felt like this for so long? I’d be lying if I said the criticism of others hadn’t got to me, but I think it is deeper than just that. I’ve had such high expectations for myself that failing on the first, second or third round knocked me to the side and it’s taken a little while to pick up the boxing gloves again. Someone would always be writing better than me while I let those fears keep hold of me.
Which is why this is quite a turning point. It has been a very long time since I have written something with my own voice (even if it is out of fear of the fear!) and despite it being at 3am in the morning, I am glad I conquered the reluctance to put finger to keyboard and just wrote as my thoughts came to mind unfiltered. It’s a start for me to reclaim the satisfaction I once had from writing anything and everything.
But don’t worry, soppy self-deprecating writing stops here (she says, over confidently). I’ll begin to edit from the next post. Journalism, critical and fictional writing begin from humble sources, be it a napkin or a blog. Here is my start in the latter.