There are a million things to write and
a never ending supply of blank computerized pages for me to type all
over and I can not think of a single thing to write.
I used to be so
creative and able to write out a whole story in moments.
So what
happened?
Did I loose my imagination?
Or is it simply because I fear
how everyone else will judge what I write.
For so long I have written
from my heart and for many years every word I wrote has been looked
over with harsh eyes that penetrate through the stack of my thoughts
all the way to my soul. I have to come to realize the reason I loved
writing was because it came from me and nobody scowled at it, but as
soon as it left my eager hands and hopeful mind it became something I
hated. Hate is a strong word, so perhaps it was not exactly hatred,
but a strong dislike for what would become of my hard work. I knew
that once I got that piece of joy back it would be covered in red
scribbles that would make me feel like all I did was wrong and that I
should not attempt to create anything with all my effort ever again.
Why should I try when all I get back are words of discouragement and
dislike?
Part of being a writer is to be able to take the good with
the bad and run with it all together and make your work better than
it was, so much better that no one can find anything wrong with it.
I, however, could not take this view so easily because I had teachers
who constantly shut down all my efforts.
I judged my own writing, as
well, but apparently my own critical eye could not catch all the
awful things that the red pen would later find.
People assume that a
writer is suddenly blessed with a wonderful idea and then they can
write for days upon months and create something so fantastic that
everybody will love it. This is not true. Writers may always have an
imagination that is ready to write but we struggle with everything we
let out of our minds. There is always a fear that the idea we have
decided to share with the world might be hated. Some ideas take off
and the world loves them. And then other ideas flop and die. A
writer cannot sit there and wonder which direction their idea may go
because then we would never share anything.
I stopped sharing my
ideas with people a long time ago in fear that my words were not good
enough to share. A speaker needs ears to hear their words and a
writer needs eyes to read their words. I wrote a short story seven
years ago and to this day anybody who has read it remembers how
wonderful that story was. How it had made them cry and most of them
believed it was real. Now that was a powerful story, but could I ever
write something that good ever again? Perhaps, but I will never know
unless I share what I have hidden in my countless notebooks.
If you
give into fear you give it power. If you learn to face your fear, you
give yourself power.
