I know, crazy I am posting this type of blog post on this lovely Monday.
I just did a quick check – the last time I wrote a journal entry was September 2022… 9 months ago!
I truly wish I could say in those 9 months, I wrote an amazing first draft that I am now editing away with the intention to query soon to hopefully have my book published… but that would be a HUGE lie.
The excitement I have when opening up a fresh blog post knowing full well I will be diving into a writing update was long gone. I would back out, get too scared and decide I would write a book review instead.
Well, up until two weeks ago, at least.
I know full well these posts don’t reach that many people, the few handful that it does have been so supportive and encouraging. But truthfully, I write these posts for myself mostly. I want to hold myself accountable. I want to remind myself of the struggles, but I also want to remind myself of the wins!
That was very hard to do in the last couple of months.
The only way I could explain it – without going into a crazy tangent or indulging into details that matter to no one but me – is that writing was always a beautiful escape for me. In stories, in books, in movies, even in music. I loved being able to escape whatever issues, whatever problems, and whatever terrors were haunting me in my life to a world so far removed.
It became especially more apparent when my anxiety got worse as a teenager. I would write to escape my mind. All I felt would be plotted onto the pages and with that, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.
But what happens when the source of your happiness, of that relief suddenly becomes the reason for it?
I hated to admit that. I hate to think that the reason I stopped writing was because the anxiety that came with having to be perfect, wanting to be published, wanting to do justice to a story that has been with me since I was a young teen. It consumed me too much that it turned into a cycle of imposter syndrome, of self-doubt beyond anything I felt I could come back from. It turned into a cycle of starting and stopping a story I want so desperately to tell because I felt I was a horrible writer who was kidding herself.
In it all, I didn’t really give up on the story, but I gave up on myself. I still daydreamed about the world in my story and the characters. I still had plot points come up, dialogue happen in my head, and a scenery flash in now and again.
I just stopped believing that I could be the one to tell it. These journal type posts are filled with my failures or doubts and then a splash of optimism but truthfully… this matters because it lets me be human.
Yes, it sucks to fail. It sucks to claim you have it all together finally only to fail again. If anything though, it shows me that it’s all part of the process.
I guess I am here to say that I failed. I did not write often, I let my anxiety get the better of me, I stood in my own way.
What I realized over the last few weeks though, if I never had doubt, if I never started and stopped then the story in my head wouldn’t have screamed loud enough for me to push past it all.
I just wanted to give a gentle reminder to everyone who has a passion project, who doubts themselves and wonders if they are good enough. You are not alone.
But if you have doubt, then you have some sort of courage that made you believe at one point you could do it.
That’s all it takes to hold onto and bring yourself back to yourself and overcome your fears.
I decided that I will take a more kind approach when it comes to writing now. I want to document the good and the bad still but instead of avoiding posting for months because I felt like a failure, I will actually show those feelings and what made me doubt myself.
I hope it helps anyone out there feel like they could do the same 💕