Starting anything is usually both equally daunting and exciting all at once. So why would I, ever in a million years, assume that blogging would be any different?
I used to actively blog in my dramatic pre-teen and even more melodramatic teen years, when I thought everything I said, did, and even, well, thought was the height of importance. Then, later, when I was forced into accepting reality and acknowledging that I am not the most interesting specimen on the face of the planet, I had to actively blog for college classes, internships, and all that jazz. Somewhere between then and now, I’ve lost all my confidence and feelings of self-importance to become a measly, wannabe, grown-up writer who now has a conscious about posting things online. Who would’ve thunked it?
Anyways, so here I am.
The title of this particular blog article is very telling for those that know me – or maybe it’s really not and I just like to think it is – either way, I’ll try to explain myself.
I love, with the biggest bleeding heart, and passionately dislike, with the utmost painful migraine, all things FRENCH. I took the language for years in high school and eons in college. Yet, it didn’t seem to matter how much I tried, because that damn language just wasn’t in my blood, oxygen, or any other kind of natural life seeking supplement oozing and streaming throughout my human body. All I wanted to do was squeeze it and love on it but it treated me like a temperamental cat (really is there any other kind) that would hiss or wait for the first opportunity to claw its way out of my grasp and go hide wherever it is that cats go to rule the universe.
To say my French courses were difficult would be the biggest understatement. To say my French teachers and professors were patient and understanding would be a HUGE injustice. But to say I was anywhere near mastering the art of the French language by the time I graduated college would be downright laughable. So here I am, jibber jabbering in half spoken English, let alone French, trying to get my point across in a very unsuccessful way.
What I’m trying to say is that writing is starting to become my new French. And that scares the ever-loving hell out of me.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve never really had to think about writing because it always came extremely naturally to me. A love for words was always a part of my life, even before I understood just how much of a role it played. I actively wrote all the time in journals, letters, crumpled up notes, and the list can go on. The point is: I wrote. All the time. Every day. Everywhere.
Okay, so I’m romanticizing it a bit. Writing was hard. Very hard at times. But even being hard, it was an easy kind of hard. – Yeah I just read that. Jeeze, I’m making no sense. Ugh. What I mean is, writing was difficult a lot of the time, but my pleasure in writing it far outweighed any of the negatives that came with searching for the correct word or showing it to a teacher.
But for some reason, now everything seems to matter when it comes to writing. Somewhere between high school and college I started to become conscientious of actually being a writer. Of being someone who wanted to eventually get published. AKA of letting the entire world, at large, read my work and potentially mock and make fun of me. I dream of people pointing their fingers at me and laughing. No, not really, but it could be true.
Yes, if you haven’t already guessed, my writerly self-esteem fluctuates sporadically from being on a ridiculous high that I’m-the-next-J.-K.-Rowling to dropping to the point where I have to beg my mom to seriously-just-tell-me-if-I-spelled-my-damn-name-right. That’s me. Sitting in a writer’s version of AA, raising my hand and weeping to anyone who will listen in between my ever growing snot bubbles.
I’m not proud of letting the fear that comes hand in hand with writing professionally so easily ostracize my life. But I am proud that I’m starting to finally take action against it. For a long while – okay let’s be honest – a few years, I’ve been dragging my feet when it comes to doing something I LOVE so much and, in many ways, I feel like I’ve lost a very important part of what makes me me.
So here’s to taking back the reins or, at the very least, starting to point them in a new direction.