For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved to write. Whether it was stories, poems, songs, or letters, I would always feel calm and at ease when transferring the deepest crevices of my mind into reality. A pen in my hand or a keyboard beneath my fingertips granted me easy satisfaction. The feeling of completing a piece by divulging myself into my own work was rejuvenating. My mind was the limit and I had barely scratched the horizon. But although my passion for writing is burning like a phoenix, I often find myself too scared of the flames.
This may sound contradictory. Me, someone who is clearly writing right now, discussing how I was nervous to write. It’s a tangled mess in my head as well, one that I’m still straightening out. Over the past few months, I haven’t been writing as much. The uncertainty of whether my words would have meaning overpowered my will to pick up the pen. It was really discouraging — believing that my aspirations would have no impact whatsoever. My inner critic was scowling at every word I wrote, complaining that I was wasting time and ink. It screamed that I shouldn’t follow my passion into writing and follow a career path that wouldn’t make me happy, but secure me financially. That I should have taken into account my relatives’ unsure facial expressions when I shared my goals to be a writer. For months I neglected my writing, despite the ideas that crawled into my brain and screamed to be transferred to paper. It hadn’t even mattered that the majority of what I wrote wouldn’t be disclosed to anyone simply because of how inferior I had made myself feel. I had given myself the ultimate writer’s block where I barricaded myself away from producing. I was scared of disappointing myself in doing something that I loved. I feared that I would not reach my own standards. And most of all, I was petrified by the possibility of failure.
In the time that I spent apart from writing, I admired those works around me. If I couldn’t bring myself to write, I might as well read. Perhaps this break was the best for me since it allowed me to make a powerful discovery I had yet to stumble upon. The ability of writers to synthesize their thoughts into reality mesmerized me, but I did not immediately realize how many attempts it must have taken them to get to the final draft. Take the musical “Hamilton” for example. Lin-Manuel Miranda spent six years creating it, draft after draft after draft, before it became a sensational Broadway success that won 11 Tony Awards. In the long run, his work over all those years paid off ( a giant understatement).
After a good amount of time slipped by, I emerged out of my shell with the conviction that I was making a great mistake if I prevented myself from creating. The critic within me had preyed on my insecurities for far too long and it was time to pull the plug. My passion had been overshadowed for the longest time and I had realized that the act of writing was more important than the content itself. Learning only comes from experience and I had deprived myself of lessons that would only help me grow. It doesn’t matter if I spend 20 minutes writing something I want to tear apart, as long as I let myself engage in a process that can only better myself.
To write is to sculpt your mind little by little and it doesn’t matter if what’s produced is award winning or cringe worthy. Having not realized that sooner, I prevented myself from uncovering parts of my own identity and strengths, but now I can only grow from this setback. The phoenix within me had burned up into a crisp and while it may have taken time to rise from the ashes, it has returned stronger with an ever-burning fire that won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.
