They say that writer’s block affects us all. That sooner or later, an empty Microsoft Word document will challenge you with it’s cold, blinking cursor and you’ll turn away in defeat. The words won’t come, no matter how hard you try to squeeze them out of the recesses of your brain. The pen in your hand, it only serves to mock you now.
I’ve had plenty such experiences. But these days, the thing that blocks my writing isn’t necessarily a lack of ideas and words as much as it’s a lack of confidence in them. It only takes one stray thought to send my mind tumbling down the chasm of self-loathing. What on earth could I have to say that would truly matter? How could my opinions, at my age and stage of life, count for anything? What reason is there to be vulnerable, when so much of that openness has led to pain?
I can’t pretend that I’ve found all the answers to these questions, nor will I claim to have fixed the many problems that lie inside me. But a conversation with a friend today sparked a twinge of confidence, so here I am. Because I have words. So many words. Sometimes they overflow so fast that I get too overwhelmed to even write them down. And even when there’s just a trickle, there are words inside me that want to get out. I truly desire to give those words a voice to be heard in this world, and I believe that’s why the words were given to me in the first place.
So maybe my posts will be rambling and repetitive at times. Perhaps my novels will have a few plotholes. My articles and short stories and memoirs might fall short of brilliant.
However, if my story matters, as I’ve claimed it does – then the voice with which I express that story will have to do. It can improve, it can be honed, and I can learn and change and I continue to grow. But imperfections, I refuse to let you silence me for good. And anxiety, you can take a back seat. Because I’ve got many more Word Documents to fill.