Writing Isn’t My Jam

Let me be clear, I am terrified of writing. Absolutely 100 percent to my core, terrified. I have no fear of navigating a subway system in Paris, figuring out the best route to a vineyard in Northern Italy, and not a shred of fear in stopping and asking a stranger a question, even if we both don’t speak a word of each other’s language. I can handle it. But writing has eluded me since I was 12 years old. Stopped dead in my tracks, or maybe, in this case, dead mid-sentence. 

I grew up on a 169-acre farm in western Pennsylvania, in a household where everyone was at least 13 years or more, older than me, which led me to learn how to entertain myself, continually. There were maybe 13 channels on our television set, unlikely that all of them could get a signal. I spent an unusual amount of time reading, filling my imagination with places far away, and writing stories. Then one day, my father asked me who would ever care about anything I wrote. It took the wind out of me. It knocked every possible ounce of confidence I had out of those fragile sails, and I believe I just shut down. Considering I could never write anything that would have value to anyone. Most importantly, me. 

Fast forward, this small tiny incident manifested itself into a considerable handicap, and, without a doubt, there have been people in my life who have and will judge my ability to craft a sentence. It’s been one of those little secrets that I just brush off or try and laugh off. But honestly, every time I’ve picked up a pencil or attempted to strike the keys on a keyboard, I am frozen in fear of how I’ll be judged. 

So here I am, jumping off the deep end, right off a 100-foot cliff into an ocean with unknown objects circling below, and likely a few sharks out there ready to take a bite. Sharks, another one of my major phobias. But more on that later. For now, I’ll just relish in the fact that I’ve successfully written my first blog.