I used to write a lot. And not because I thought anyone was reading, maybe a few were, but they weren’t shaping my decision to blog. I would write what I considered to be vignettes, often strictly dialogue, and I fancied myself good at it. I knew my grammar was rough (my sister would say, “You don’t need a comma there!”), and I abused the right to semicolon (still do). My subject choices were incredibly trivial, transitory descriptions with no heart to them.
I was always afraid to write with heart or truth. Is that what makes a great writer? Of course I didn’t need to be great; I only needed to write.
I’m too big of a coward to be a writer with ambition. This didn’t stop me from writing love letters to the internet. Hi, here’s a story about no one, arriving at a cigar shop, and leaving.
I wonder about the emptiness that comes with selling yourself short because of fear. I’m afraid to explore my old style again, afraid it was absolute crap. I’ve received criticism, accused of “flowery, thesaurus laden language” and the honesty helped, but I wasn’t into receiving the sting of it again.
Recently I read my old stuff and smiled. I was unafraid, even if I wasn’t making waves in any platform, style, or genre. Even if most people I knew/know had no idea I did it; to me it was good shit. It was my shit.