Writing has never come easily to me. Yes, I could write quality papers for class, but I’d always agonize over them being good enough. It seemed like some people just wanted to get it over with, and they weren’t really attached to their paper on Their Eyes Were Watching God. Totally understandable, and I almost envy their detachment, because that’s just not me. Never has been, never will be.
I know I’m a good writer. In a huge pool of people who blog, or write for a living, or are trying to get their manuscripts published, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. So many people could do this better than me, and many do. So many more stick with it and are consistent about posting to their blogs, whether or not their writing is good quality or grammatically correct or if they have an audience other than their moms.
I can’t count how many blogs I’ve started. There have been countless proclamations of, “I’m going to really do it this time! Every day!” Just as many backtracks–“Well, no one’s reading it anyway. Why bother?” Enough minor moments to get me off track, and enough instances where the blogging world just seems too big to add one more.
But I don’t know why I see it as competition. I see just about everything as competition: which friends will get their “dream job” first, who makes more money, who seems happier, who’s really earned what they got, who seems to have all their shit together. I’ve heard so many times that it’s useless to compare yourself to others, but I’ve never been able to internalize it. I am the worst kind of perfectionist–the criticizer who knows I can probably do it better, but who gives up early on when confronted with people who are already doing it or when I hit a surmountable road block.
I can’t promise myself that I’ll keep writing here. I can’t say that I’ll be back here tomorrow, and the next day, and that I become a consistent blogger with connections to other bloggers. That’s the hope. I can only speak for today and say, “I did it.”