I’m not a confident person, though you’d be forgiven for thinking that untrue. I’m outgoing, sure, but confidence isn’t something I find naturally. I fancy myself a lot of things. A storyteller. An artist. A writer. A musician. But I harbor plenty of doubt as to whether I am really any bit remarkable in any of these.
When I was I’m middle school, I was (I kid you not) a competitive writer. It was through a program called Power of the Pen; we’d practice and compete at writing quickly, clearly and creatively from a prompt. Frankly, I don’t recall if I was any good. I had fun, though.
‘Describe a phone booth to an alien.’
Challenge accepted.
I feel like I’m no better a writer today than when I was in seventh grade. I struggle to be clear. I loathe proofreading.
But here I am. Writing to you several times a week (at least when I’m doing it right). Trying to hone this craft, feeling a little like Doogie Houser, M.D. typing entries in his digital diary. Some days I feel like a fraud. Some days I feel like I’ve got something to say. Some days it’s for you. Some days, it might just be for me.
Part of this journey means being intentional in writing and doing and creating what I know. No, not rehashing and being “unoriginal” (whatever that means, anyway). But it does mean I don’t have to be as cool as Shauna or as funny as Alison.
I can feel a sense of peace in being me.
And writing what I know.