Hi again.
I’m not a writer. I don’t like writing unless it’s to deconstruct myself, like I’m doing right now. Ever since I was little, I’ve had extremely bad anxiety over writing assignments for class, argumentative or narrative, because reading them back over makes my head hurt from how badly I feel like I conveyed what was inside my head.
Months or even years afterwards, I still look back on what I’ve written and regret it so much. I’ve begged my teachers to skip writing assignments because I always know how it’ll end up. Whether it’s a lack of understanding of how people actually act, not being able to convey what I want in a subtle way, or just a feeling that I’m commiting a crime against humanity because what I’ve made is too bizarre, I always end up thinking of it the same way.
It’s not simply being embarressed by old work. I know that writers feel like that all the time. I wish that wasn’t a part of being a writer, though. It hurts knowing that I have so many ideas stuck in my head that I’d love to share in a meaningful way, but I can’t because no matter what, I’ll never be truly happy with how it turned out. I’ve tried for years to understand how stories are constructed, from characters to plot to themes to structure to literary devices. I think my understanding of all of those is pretty good at this point. I can read a book or watch a movie and understand the subtlety in it’s characterization, the reasons it was written the way it was, the themes it wanted to convey. But when I try to explain those to another person, my sentences become vague or turn into word salad. I ruin every work I touch just by explaining my interpretation of it.
None of this would even be a problem if I wasn’t a creative person at heart. I always loved making up little stories in my head. I love to convey my ideas through art. Art is simple to me compared to writing. You take an idea, you sketch it, you change the sketch if you don’t like it, then you finalize it. Art is a relaxing way for me to put my ideas on paper, and I’m usually happy with the final result.
Despite that, I still can’t shake this feeling that I want to write. It could be similarly relaxing to me, if it weren’t for all this pressure from the world around me, and the world inside me to be “good”, whatever that means. The creative person inside me is slowly dying because writing feels like a competitive game, where the best get endless recognition and the worst get to eat spit.
No one is watching me when I’m writing to myself, I know, but that self-deprecating devil is always hanging over me, no matter what I try to do to stamp it out.