After writing a small article on the decline of swifts for a local magazine, I was inundated with emails – okay, well, I got two emails – thanking me for writing said article. The writers of these emails expressed their opinions that I had written a decent article, full of good advice. Of course, I am the writer of that article, so I was able to read it back to myself and find at least eight things I wish I had done differently in the first paragraph.
Out of this exchange of emails, an invitation to a local writing group was proffered. Which is exciting, of course. Oh, and it also fills me with absolute dread! I mean, the very thought of reading aloud my writing to a group of people fills me with terror! Heck, I'm not sure I could read aloud to the flippin' cat without suspecting that I was being judged!
(To be fair, there probably would be judgement – she is a cat. That's what they do.)
If I am not reading, I might be writing; two activities that keep me firmly hidden behind pages and screens. You see, I have been, ever since I was a child, riddled with anxiety. I am not sure where it comes from. When I was a child, I was afraid to leave the house and go to school. The thought of it, and the nerves which made both my head and stomach churn, made me nauseous.
Me and social interaction have an uneasy thing going on.
So, yeah, this invitation is exciting, and one that I ought to accept gratefully, and I am grateful, but there's that feeling in my stomach again. And that voice in my head, running through all the ways I can plausibly back out and not be thought the oddest of the oddballs.
At the end of last month, I received an email from Writers' Forum magazine, letting me know that a poem of mine, which I had entered into their monthly competition, would be published in the next issue of the magazine. Whilst it didn't win first prize, it was highly commended.
There is a rush that comes with seeing my name in print. However, this is tempered by the desire to go back in time and tweak and change all the things I've only just noticed now that the thing is in print. This leads to that nagging voice – "Are you sure you deserve this? I mean, this is just a fluke, isn't it? I mean, I won't tell anyone but you and I both know, you don't really know what you're doing, do you."
Not a question, you understand. An accusation.
I have a handful of voices kicking around in there, apparently.
Do all writers experience this? The deep unswaying need to write, coupled with a fear that their writing might actually be read?
Before I give the impression that I am nought but a trembling, dribbling wreck, curled up in a foetal position on the floor, tapping fearfully away at keys, jumping at every click and clack, in a darkened room, with a blanket over my head, I will say that I have enough confidence in my writing to continue flinging it out into the world. The anxieties and uncertainties that follow will have to be navigated as they come, for there is not much I can do about this need to write.
My need and love of writing is an extension of my passion for reading. It comes from my deep respect for the written word. But also, it is an awfully attractive means by which an unsure individual can communicate with the world.
Thank you for reading. Before you go, can I ask you to consider buying a coffee for the author of this blog post. Turns out, making money out of writing can be bloomin' hard!
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