In recent readings and conversations with friends, I’ve come to realize that I’m not a good writer. I don’t mean that in a feigning for sympathy sense. I only mean it realistically. My writing is not crap, but it’s not amazing. I lack education, and I lack skill. At least, the amount that I desire.
I write this post for myself in an attempt to keep relentless contenders on their side of the ring. I have two significant fears that are rattling around with twelve ounce gloves. The first is that I am what I am. I’m a writer who is taking the first steps of a hopefully long journey. The second fear is that the first fear will overcome my desire to move froward. Should I lock myself into a feedback loop of nothing is ever good enough, then nothing will be released, no progress will be made, and nothing will ever be good enough. It’s a fragile balance to not produce crap and to never produce at all.
My anxiousness is difficult to control. I suppose young sluggers fresh in a ring typically are. I’ve had a hard time reminding myself that this fight has more than one round, and this career has more than one fight. It’s okay to spend some time in training before getting pummeled. But these stories, these feelings, these ideas that thrash around inside my head, are a fierce drive. It’s a drive I’ve been denying myself for well over fifteen years, although I wasn’t fully aware of it. The creative spark is a flame that burns its way through everything.
This website has a ‘visits’ tracker that you can’t see. The tracker has taken on a slow pulse that spikes in the evening hours when I typically post. That’s a good thing, an intended thing. My flash fictions and my ramblings are little tidbits to keep people coming by, checking in. But they’re also helping to serve as a small training ground. It helps keep me calm. It helps me focus. It helps to remind me that there is more than one round, more than one fight.
I thank those who swing by to see me training. I hope you’ll continue to do so. And again, I don’t say this for sympathy. I say this for me. I hope to look back on these pages years from now with a remembering smile.