As I wrote about writing and my lack of self-confidence this morning, the recurrence of the subject dawned on me. Out of 31 posts on this blog, 4 are about how hard it is for me to write. In 2015 I vowed:
Anything I publish I will write in one hour or less. Anything I start writing I will publish.
My resolution lasted a whole 2 weeks after which I stopped writing for an entire year.
In 2017, again writing about writing, I said, “I’m shy.” Noting then that in life I feel more comfortable talking to people individually rather than in groups, I thought about pretending to write to a friend. It helped for several weeks as I published post after post. Nearing the end of that streak I wrote about apathy, something I still wonder about today: how many fascinating individuals remain silent their entire lives?
Until right now, as I reminisce and put all this into words, I had not realized how long of a struggle this has been. The more conscious part of me sort of thinks of writing as a fringe hobby, not a big deal, something I can do without. But another part of me seems very attached to it so that I come back, year after year, tiptoeing, desperately trying to make it work.
It started way before 2015. I’ve been writing and abandoning blogs since my teens. I fondly keep an old, undated piece of paper where I made the case for apathy and not writing at all:
There is bias in our literature. That we should care to read, and to share, or to contribute. That we benefit from others. That it somewhat matters, despite the inevitable destruction of everything that was ever manufactured, of everything we have ever known.
There’s truth in that, I think. And yet, how ironic that I wrote the thought down, kept it around for years, and am now sharing it. Apathy, it seems, isn’t available to me.
Looking towards the future I hope that my writing efforts won’t, in the end, be summarizable by my yearly “writing is hard” observations.