A Confession on Writing

In the 5th grade, I won an essay writing contest. I don't remember the topic, but it was part of the DARE program (drugs are bad, mmmmk), and I won pizza for the class. I was basically 10 year-old Jesus 😇. And many people, (sweet grandma included) said it then, and have said it since, "You're such a good writer." And thus a gorilla was born, and it's been living (rent-free) on my back ever since.

I'm not a writer. At least I don't think I am. And that's probably the key bit. There is this weird contradiction because I love the craft of writing. I love choosing the perfect word, joining together a series of sentences that flow, and putting down words that can magically and telepathically elicit emotions from someone else.

And yet, I do not practice writing. I do not put things out into the world for people to consume. I do not share this hidden, secret, nearly shameful love of mine.

Maybe it's the expectation and pressure of wanting to be a world-class writer. Maybe it's fear of receiving criticism. Maybe it's not wanting to let down people in my inner circles. Whatever it is, the gap is cavernously wide between what words I hope to put out, and what actually exists in the world.

For all of these problems, there is only one solution…to write. It does not have to be big, it does not have to be immaculate. It just has to exist on a page, somewhere where others can see it. The act of writing every week, while terrifying, is a practice of craft, and a practice of courage. There may not be a pizza party to celebrate it, but I'm doing it anyways. Hope you enjoy the journey.