Confessions of my teenage smoke screen…

I have something that I really need to get off my chest. I hate writing. I hate it because I’m scared of it.

I’m self-conscious of my narrative voice when it comes out too obnoxiously or not at all and my writing starts to sound like it belongs in a professional email. I’m scared that people are judging me, especially when I share my blog posts and news articles over social media. I’m scared that I don’t write often enough and that I’ll lose my talent, whatever talent I have. I’m worried that I don’t see or feel my so-called talent at all, that I only consider myself talented in writing because of what others have told me. I’m worried they’re just being nice by saying that I’m a good writer. I’m scared because I don’t believe them. I’m scared of my high expectations of myself. I’m scared of failure.

I love my blog and I love writing for the Collegiate Times. I love putting thoughts into words with a passion, so much so that it actually becomes a huge source of anxiety for me. I want my “baby,” my creation, to be absolutely perfect. I want my whole heart and soul to shine through my words and fill those reading it with warmth and strength. I want to affect change. I want to inspire people. I have unreasonably high expectations of my writing, as well as every other aspect of my life. I expect every news article and every blog post I write to be profound and moving. I feel like unless my writing is philosophical or ontological, it’s really not worth anyone’s time. If the words don’t transcend the simple, superficial ideas most writers find in writing prompts, if the words don’t have some sort of deeper, affecting meaning, why write it at all? Any writer could tell a story of the date of his/her dreams. I’m not special. But I cling to the simplicity of my experiences, no matter how trivial, because they’re easy- unsatisfying, but easy. I’m too scared to aim higher, to explore more meaningful, more fulfilling topics. I’m scared of a grand failure. I’m scared that my experiences don’t warrant wisdom or the discussion of complex ideas; I’m nineteen. Simple ideas are safer. But then who cares about my first day of school and what it meant for me?

And who am I writing for?

I feel that I’m too reliant on the recognition of others. I thrive on the numbers; page views and comments.

Are the readers who I’m writing for?

Shouldn’t I be writing for me?

Or should I be writing for the idea, because I feel passionate about something?

I have so many thoughts buzzing around inside my head that when it actually comes time to write, I become overwhelmed. I can’t write. I won’t write. I don’t write.