I’ve been sitting here for a while, churning over two posts that I want to publish. They’re really long, nearly ready, and also not nearly ready enough. More appropriately, maybe I’m not ready for them. When I started writing for this site, I said I wanted to write things that I put thought into. Sometimes, that thought is difficult to wrestle into words.
I have long worked in Corporate America, which has taught certain rules. We don’t cross over from the professional. We don’t talk about politics or religion. We don’t talk about feelings much. Vulnerability is not rewarded in many organizations. Insecurity certainly isn’t. Writing can invoke all of those things.
I’m learning that there are some things I’m really good at talking about. I’m confident, feel knowledgeable, and am excited by the content. Other times, when I’m writing more about the “why” and less about the “how”, it can be a struggle to get the words on the page. I see this as a positive, because it is making me reconsider why I think the things I do, but it is also a negative for the content calendar.
Writing is a very personal activity. It can be frightening to put a piece of yourself out there for the world. Just like other art forms, – and yes, I believe the written word is art – it is open to interpretation, criticism, and praise. It is a question of how much the author finds their self-worth is defined by those reactions. It helps when readership is low.
As I sit here, thinking unnecessarily deep thoughts, listening to melancholy music, and wondering why it is so hard to commit, I am reminded that it really doesn’t really matter. The difficulty is inside, not outside. My insecurities are much more about me and what I think than what others think. Sometimes, it feels like wandering through the desert. Or maybe the hills of California.
So today’s post is an ode to those posts, as fraught with difficulty as they are. May they be visible eventually. Or not.