Why do I write? Honestly, why do I write? I don't know why. I remember wanting to be an author from the time I understood they were the ones that created the stories. Even journalists fascinated me in their ability to create doors into the world and people's lives. My self-esteem has been hit-or-miss my entire life. Until December 2019, I didn't think I was smart or talented enough to write anything worth reading. I could not let myself dream until a friend convinced me to strive and dream. I will forever be grateful to him for this life-changing gift. His confidence in my ability still amazes me as we are essentially strangers.
However, I've arrived at a crossroads of attempting to justify why I continue to write, I don't understand my drive. Nor able to figure out where I go next. I want to express myself but blind on how I'm supposed to go about it. I've been told my articles on Medium read like personal blog posts by professionals. Yet, others give me kudos and encourage me to continue, saying I have something worth developing. This is lovely and I appreciate it, but it doesn't lift the blinders. I've been told that I will 'know' what it is I'm supposed to write when the book inside of me is ready to come out. That is a difficult thing to believe. I don't have formal training as a writer or in literature. It should be obvious to anyone who reads my content.
I'm looking over the cliff, watching the waves hit the rocks, the ocean spray shoots high into the air, daring me to jump, and join the tumultuous journey of self-expression. It will inevitably batter me against the jagged rocks, yet I admit I know how to swim. I've been an ocean baby since I could talk. Literally and figuratively. What do other authors do when lost in this fashion? Dive in, expose themselves, let their dank, imperfect, seaweed strewn writing be tossed back on shore for all to see? Judged, scrutinized, smelled with scrunched up noses? Do I keep jumping back off the cliffs and continue washing up on the beach, repeatedly? Is it possible my writing may develop an iridescence glow, the shine of an ocean's love for a shell?
Last thought–Does any other writer feel like they must apologize for their writing continually? For example, I realize the above is cheesy, but I wanted to go with it. This isn’t going into Forbes or another major publication. Yet, when I do something like this, I feel like I need to explain I know how to write better. It is as if I am attempting to get ahead of any criticism. This may be something I need to figure out how to get over, and quickly.