“Forthcoming: a memoir.”
“I’m writing a book.”
“I’m starting a newsletter.”
“Here’s this new blog post I’ve just written?”
And then there’s me. Meek and mild. Hiding in my corner of the internet, questioning myself, yet again.
It ebbs and flows, this insecurity. This feeling like I can’t do anything. This feeling that anything I do won’t be good enough.
The thing is, the numbers say it. Numbers say they won’t be good enough. You go and you look at stats, you look at page views, you look at this-that-and-the-other and you see, that nobody’s there.
Maybe I’ve just lost sight of it. Of the “why.” Of the reason why I put my pencil to the wide-ruled pages of my notebooks for so long. Of the reason why my J and F keys stick from overuse and exhaustion. Of the love I have for words on a page–a paper page or a web page, it’s never mattered. It was about the words.
But, I sit here, and I try. I try to put the words together. I try to get the confidence to share the news of a new project I’m looking to start next year. I try to get the confidence to put something out there, something that I can be proud of again. But, here I sit. Behind a keyboard, typing, deleting, typing, deleting. It moves like a Metro train in rush hour: starting and stopping incessantly.
Why can’t I just be like most other people who actually can get past their insecurity? Why must I be stuck in it forever? Why must it be the one thing that stops me always?
I’ll have the idea, I’ll start the project. I’ll make progress and I’ll have something I’m mildly proud of. Yet, when it comes time to share it? I turn back into the meek, mild, timid version of myself and I hold it tight. I doubt it and myself. I doubt everything and I shroud it all in shame and so the next time I look at something that could be a diamond in the rough, something that could be a real gem, all I see is muddled garbage. I sully it. I turn it into something awful. This blog, my work, it’s all feeling awful now. Everything feels awful, nothing feels good enough.
Why can’t I just be proud of myself? Why can’t I just be happy? Why can’t I?