Sometimes I just hate writing. And I love it. But I hate it.
I found myself nodding along with Michael Crichton when he wrote: “If you’re a writer, the assimilation of important experiences almost obliges you to write about them. Writing is how you make the experience your own, how you explore what it means to you, how you come to possess it, and ultimately release it.”
But I just can’t seem to get myself to write most of the time. I use the easy excuse of “I’ve just been really busy and haven’t had time”, but that’s not true. I don’t write because it’s often painful. But it really is the way that I explore the events of my life and possess them and release them (to use Crichton’s terms). And there’s a part of me that feels stuffed with unreleased experiences, because I simply won’t to toil through smashing them out in words.
And maybe it’s because I really hate to just lay it all out there. I’ve been under the vague impression for several years that I’m just a private guy who likes to keep to myself. It’s probably more accurate to say that I’m terrified—and, correspondingly, incredibly insecure. I don’t think I could put a good number on how much of what I do is simply an effort to get affirmation from others. More than half the time? Almost all the time?
I don’t really know, but I know it’s a lot. I remember being shocked in college when in a single semester I was told by at least three people that I was afraid to take risks. I frankly didn’t believe them. I’m not sure a whole lot has changed since then. I’m still scared and I still think I’m not.
So, I’m writing this post (about writing—ha) just to write. Because I need to. I keep putting it off because “I don’t have anything to write about”. Gotta start somewhere…