on writing
Dear monkeysoup!,
I am sorry. I have neglected you. And I have a pathetic excuse. Please, if you are willing to forgive me, take the time to read this post. It's all I've got (as far as writing goes).
This week I realized something about myself: I am a liar. Once upon a time I used to tell people that I was a writer and that I wanted nothing more than to publish books and compel people to think and to love literature. Now I'm not so sure. I feel so intimidated by all of the people around me. Everyone is so much older and more experienced than me in their own right. When I look at them from my tiny shoes, I feel so small, as if I will never grow big enough to be able to attain their level of expertise. But to tell the truth, I actually don't know if they even write well or even how my writing compares with theirs. So many people flock to English because they can't do math or because science isn't their thing or because they have some abiding love for literature. Other people find themselves in English because they can write. I used to think that was me. But for some reason, the desire is gone. I don't know where it went.
This week whenever I have sat down to write ANYTHING, I have been filled with a horrifying fear and dread. I sit at the keyboard, staring at the blank screen wondering where my thoughts went. It's not that I can't think of words to say - I have plenty of those dance around in my mind as I walk to class or brush my teeth - it's just that I am afraid I won't be able to say them the way they want to be said. It's a pathetic fear, and, if I let it, it paralyzes me. And then I can't write at all.
Can I tell you a secret? I am afraid of failure. All my life I have tried so hard to do so well, and miraculously, I have. Even though I have made mistakes and gotten a few bumps and bruises along the way, I've always learned something from it and risen above the occasion, always wanting to be more than I was before. I wish I had a couple of dozen rejection letters under my belt from which I could later quote and say, "That's right! I am good! You just didn't realize it!" But right now, I don't have any of that sass in me. If I were given a rejection letter today, I think I would swallow it along with my pride, poop it out, and then hardly think about writing again. It's a tragic and stupid thought, I know, but my desire has been paralyzed. And I don't feel like writing at all.
monkeysoup!, I'm sorry. I promise I'll still write and post and make you laugh. But can you promise me one thing? Remember that person who believed in me? Will you help me to write for him and others like him? Because honestly and truly, that is why I write: because someone believed I could.
Until next post,
Jessica
I am sorry. I have neglected you. And I have a pathetic excuse. Please, if you are willing to forgive me, take the time to read this post. It's all I've got (as far as writing goes).
This week I realized something about myself: I am a liar. Once upon a time I used to tell people that I was a writer and that I wanted nothing more than to publish books and compel people to think and to love literature. Now I'm not so sure. I feel so intimidated by all of the people around me. Everyone is so much older and more experienced than me in their own right. When I look at them from my tiny shoes, I feel so small, as if I will never grow big enough to be able to attain their level of expertise. But to tell the truth, I actually don't know if they even write well or even how my writing compares with theirs. So many people flock to English because they can't do math or because science isn't their thing or because they have some abiding love for literature. Other people find themselves in English because they can write. I used to think that was me. But for some reason, the desire is gone. I don't know where it went.
This week whenever I have sat down to write ANYTHING, I have been filled with a horrifying fear and dread. I sit at the keyboard, staring at the blank screen wondering where my thoughts went. It's not that I can't think of words to say - I have plenty of those dance around in my mind as I walk to class or brush my teeth - it's just that I am afraid I won't be able to say them the way they want to be said. It's a pathetic fear, and, if I let it, it paralyzes me. And then I can't write at all.
Can I tell you a secret? I am afraid of failure. All my life I have tried so hard to do so well, and miraculously, I have. Even though I have made mistakes and gotten a few bumps and bruises along the way, I've always learned something from it and risen above the occasion, always wanting to be more than I was before. I wish I had a couple of dozen rejection letters under my belt from which I could later quote and say, "That's right! I am good! You just didn't realize it!" But right now, I don't have any of that sass in me. If I were given a rejection letter today, I think I would swallow it along with my pride, poop it out, and then hardly think about writing again. It's a tragic and stupid thought, I know, but my desire has been paralyzed. And I don't feel like writing at all.
monkeysoup!, I'm sorry. I promise I'll still write and post and make you laugh. But can you promise me one thing? Remember that person who believed in me? Will you help me to write for him and others like him? Because honestly and truly, that is why I write: because someone believed I could.
Until next post,
Jessica
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