Thoughts on a rainy day in Penang

The thing I feared most as an aspiring author has happened. Well, one of the things, the first thing I was scared to discover; I am not extraordinarily, naturally gifted. I believe I have good, meaningful and valuable stories to tell, but my craft needs a lot of work. Often I struggle to find the right words to express the visions I have in my head. This, coupled with my incessant imposter syndrome, makes me want to retreat, hold back, stop sharing; stop sharing my pages with feedback partners, stop talking about how I am working on a novel, and sometimes to stop writing all together until I’m better at it.

However, not writing seems impossible. The desire to write is pervasive. It is what my mind wanders to when it has the space to wander. All day, every day. I’ll steal a quiet moment in a meeting to write a line or verse that comes to mind, sometimes describing what I’m feeling as if I were a character in a story. And don’t they say the more you write, the more you fail, the more you learn, and the better you get? Something like that? I suppose the writing isn’t the hardest part; it is the sharing. It’s uncomfortable. In private, I flourish and I feel more connected to myself and my voice. I write something that makes me think “Ah ha! There I am.” I am proud of it and want to share it. I’m okay with needing to get better and learning and growing as a writer excites me.

Then I share it and doubt comes by to say “hello, are you sure you want to do that?” My inner voice, trembling in fear, says things that are not so nice. Now this story that I was proud of, even if it needed polishing up, I see differently and I want to take it back. Snatch it, saying, “Never mind! Thanks again anyway.” Eventually, I build myself back up using all the mind-shifting self-help tools I have learned along the way and start from the beginning. The cycle remains.

I feel there’s a me that only comes out to play in the safety of her own home where she’s allowed to be weird and creative. Where she may fail and be messy. Where the people love her for exactly who she is, including herself. And I want that person to be ever-present.

You might think, well, if sharing is the issue, don’t do it! Write for yourself. That feels impossible to me. I know these stories already. I’ve been telling myself these stories for years. I’ve had many long talks with the characters of these stories, have visited their worlds on numerous occasions, and have filled hundreds of journals with their details. I want to share these stories with the world, hoping they will be meaningful to someone else as well. Stories helped me survive, helped me escape, helped me find peace, helped me heal. I cannot think of a greater gift than one of my stories doing that for someone else.

Well, there are the thoughts I allowed to spill out of me while watching the rain shower Penang this beautiful morning. I will click share on this post and immediately want to snatch it back, but I will do my best not to.