There, then. Here, now.
It’s been 780 days since I last posted on here, and I’m still stuck.
Honestly, it’s not from lack of trying. I’ve wanted to post something on here multiple times, starting up a draft with full intention of uploading it. It’s never a question of wanting to, but following through. I find myself asking what’s interesting enough that people will actually care to read. Or even if no one reads it, in the very least, establishes my credibility as a writer.
I use the term “writer” very loosely, seeing as if I called myself that I’d be lying. It would make me an unreliable narrator, which does great for novels but not for real life. If I haven’t posted a blog post in over two years, haven’t had a published article in longer than that, and haven’t made it more than 20 pages into writing my novel before getting stuck, then am I really a writer? Don’t get me wrong, I’m still actively writing. I fill post-it notes and word documents and entries on the notes app of my phone with unfinished stories and one-liners that come to me on a whim. I write, but I’m not a writer.
Yet, the question remains: why haven’t I posted in 780 days? It’s already been established that it’s not because I don’t write anymore, because I do. And, it couldn’t possibly be because I don’t have anything to write about. A lot can happen in two years, and a lot has.
I started two new jobs, I made and lost friends, I got my first (and second) tattoo, turned 23 and then 24, I got covid (twice), and went to three weddings. I finally went to New York to have my Yankee Stadium and Radio City Music Hall graduation ceremonies. I’ve traveled — both within and outside of the U.S. — and had trips worthy of travel journals filled with food reviews and stories. I visited Las Vegas, Croatia, the Netherlands, France, New York (repeatedly), the Bahamas, Jamaica, Mexico, and I went on three cruises.
So much life has happened since I last uploaded, to the point where if I wanted to post I would have had almost too much inspiration.
So, with a love for writing and plenty of content to write about, the reason for me not posting in over two years is really quite simple: I’m scared.
Although I hate to admit that that’s the reason, it’s the truth. Everything about uploading scared me. I’ve been scared people wouldn’t like it, scared people wouldn’t care, scared to make myself vulnerable on an online platform where anyone had access to it, or scared I wasn’t a good enough “writer” to be making my writing public.
Putting something out on the internet is much like a tattoo: permanent, anxiety-inducing, and always holds the risk of regret or embarrassment. At best it’s something you and others can admire and appreciate, at worst it’s something you’ll have to look at and live with forever.
The worst part of being a creative is the moments you feel you’re horrible at the thing you’re most passionate about.
Sometimes, it paralyzes you where you don’t even try — 780 days — and sometimes you use it as fuel. My father always told my brothers growing up, “Feel the fear but do it anyway.” I’ve let fear stop me from doing so many things in my life. It’s stopped me from learning how to ride a bike, driving a car, even pursuing my master’s degree. Yet, there have been so many things in my life that were absolutely terrifying and I did them anyway: moving across the country for college, leaving a job, and starting (and coming back to) a blog that will live on the internet.
As trite as it sounds, crossing the line from letting fear stop you and doing something is completely worth it.
F*ck it. I’m here, writing to whichever audience ends up reading this and following along, which makes me as much a writer as I’ll ever be.
To feeling the fear and doing it anyway.
