Stirring Point

A year ago, calling myself a writer felt blasphemous to the craft. Simply uttering the words in front of others choked my throat like an allergic reaction. I’d dance around phrasing and play with semantics: “I love to write,” I’d say, or “I do some writing.” Every escape hatch was prepped and peppered with vague overtones, allowing me to back out of a writer’s identity when my ego felt the least bit threatened. From 2010–2013, I kept a travel blog, but like an old pair of shoes tossed to the back of the closet when they fell out of fashion, I abandoned the writing and kept only the identity. Journal entries and letters to friends were my limited craftwork, and while they were meaningful acts, my writing remained private, stagnant, and terrible. More importantly, every draft was safely out of reach of any public scrutiny.

“I am a writer” implies that I have something to say. I believe we all have something to say—or, at the very least, the majority of us do. But by taking on this title, I am inviting readers to begin their content audit, and this is where the cold air of anxiety floods my lungs. There’ll be criticism and judgment. Other writers will notice the obvious flaws in my abilities. Everyone, and I mean everyone, will berate me for my terrible grammar. It’s one thing to write as a private outlet or to compose letters for an audience of one. But stealing the public’s attention and time when they would rather be reading “real” writers? Well, that’s unhinged. And when I do manage to pull myself out of the quicksand of imposter syndrome, I crash from the nakedness and vulnerability required to make the writing honest.

Many of these fears stem from a lack of knowledge about how to approach the reader. Before the audience engages with a piece, the writer is caught in a simulation of sorts, attempting to construct a viewpoint with enough connective tissue to resonate with the audience. Author Steven Pinker describes this relationship in his book The Sense of Style: 

“The recipients are invisible and inscrutable, and we have to get through to them without knowing much about them or seeing their reactions. At the time that we write, the reader exists in our imaginations. Writing is above all, an act of pretense. We have to visualize ourselves in some kind of conversation, or correspondence, or oration, or soliloquy, and put words into the mouth of the little avatar who represents us in this simulated world.” 

When I imagine those conversations, I’m on my side of the table, tangled in a knot of my own making. A thought occurs, and everything becomes clear for a brief moment. But when it lands on the diving board of my lips, it botches the takeoff and lands with a belly flop. Its gainer is always 5 degrees off-kilter.

Let’s not forget that the actual mechanics of writing can be a real goddamn chore. Grammar, timing, tempo, verbosity, active vs. passive voice, overwriting, sloppy editing, avoiding clichés, stacking prepositional phrases—the list goes on. Every time I click the “publish” button on a post, I envision everyone who opens the link reaching for their favorite red pen. Wait. Red Pen? Is that a cliché? The spiral down the rabbit hole of second-guessing has no end. Rabbit hole—is that two words or one? And down the rabbit hole is definitely a cliché. Every writer worth their salt knows to avoid those. Worth their salt! Another cliché. It never ends.

Why share my fears about writing? Because it scares me to do so, and this unease must be addressed. I am not afraid of writing. In fact, I live for its catharsis. But I do fear the inevitable errors my eyes can’t see. I fear judgment, and the public admonishments I foolishly imagine serious writers will one day level against me—all of which come from sharing. Of course, these are fleeting insecurities, ephemeral in nature, and destined for the rearview mirror. Consistency, unwavering effort, and dedication to the craft will eventually chip away at my imposter syndrome.

Life is often a deluge of mundane acts. Sure, we plop events and adventures on our timeline to break up the linear minutiae. But when we add up the minutes, they’re mostly spent in front of a computer, driving to the grocery store, loading the dishwasher—you catch my drift. The writer, as the observer, treats these moments as reconnaissance. Every location becomes a potential source of inspiration for the details that flesh out a story. The clack of the keyboard, the rain on the windshield, the lemon scent of Palmolive—inspiration is all around. And within the mundane, we find an avalanche of information prime for description. Read The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen and it will jump off the page at you. Why bring this up? Because I’m home now from my three-month wander, and while there are still stories to tell from my time away—and new adventures waiting on the horizon—my writing must search through the clutter and routine of daily life to explore the landscape in front of me. It must reach beyond the exotic travel stories that provide me with rich content to explore. And despite the fears, insecurities, and future failures I’m certain I’ll experience, this writer sees the world around him as an endless source of material to sculpt and craft into something worthy of your time.

More writing and more sharing are the solutions to my fears. Developing a sense of style and improving my grammar can only help. I’ll study the work of the writers I admire. My errors, at times, will be public. But this is only going to work if I am honest with the reader and honest with myself. I’m scared to open the veins of vulnerability in public, and writing is my greatest opportunity to face that fear. So, I won’t run from the angst and dread this time. I won’t toss the shoes in the back of the closet. I’ll take my licks as they come and keep moving forward.