I don't think I've ever experienced insecurity like I have these last few weeks since taking on this adventure of writing.
I am extremely slow. It's because of that insecurity. But I tell myself: by the time I share, I will have reached that point where I feel—yeah, this is great work. Even if the energy is split between confidence and doubt—this is great work... but... but...
And I assume there is always that recognition in a writer, isn't there? This quiet knowing that whispers: This is worthy. This needs to be shared. Or why would we share it at all?
And then—we share.
I browse other work and sometimes feel nothing. That terrifies me. That could be me. All that passion and certainty about my work's worthiness—poof—only recognized by me... and maybe one other weirdo.
I'm performing my insecurity here, aren't I? A little theater. But the thing is—I'm not struggling to write. I'm just afraid that maybe I am the only one resonating in my particular frequency
"I am the only one resonating in my particular frequency"
Even as I write this, I realize how cocky that sounds. There's a little bit of arrogance in insecurity, isn't there? That thought sits heavy—the presumption that my frequency is so singular, so leading-edge, that only I could resonate here.
Is this arrogance disguised as doubt, or doubt as arrogance?
And perhaps, too, it's a lack of faith in myself, and in others to recognize what's here.
There's another layer too. The idea that I care so much because I somehow believe my work should matter more. That it should not fall flat. That it should not go unnoticed.
But why not? Why shouldn't it sometimes disappear into the void?
A lot happens in the void.
Still... I keep writing. Because even through the fear, something in me believes: It is worthy. It does need to be shared. Even if it's only for me. And maybe one other weirdo who gets it.
The weirdo who stops mid-scroll. Who reads it twice. Who feels less alone in their own particular frequency—and doesn’t care if it was arrogance or doubt that drove me to share it.
And maybe... that's enough.
Maybe all of that contrast is fuel. A writer's fuel, whether it drives us toward our work or away from it.
Maybe that's everything.
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