Promises
Can I tell you a secret? As a child, my world was small and safe enough to believe that creating and writing stories was my superpower. Mum says that most of the time I was “away with the fairies”, and she was right. But I was also away with the nymphs, and the spirits, and the animals I was convinced I could talk to.
I would sit on my grandmother’s knee, fervently telling my own tales of gallant knights and spirited princesses. I’d spend weekends sprawled on my belly, with folded sheets of stapled paper and felt tips at the ready, so I could write and illustrate my favourite films as they played on VHS. I wrote plays for my cousins to perform to our aunties and uncles (I’d like to say they were always willing, but I admit that at times my enthusiasm for them to take part probably crept towards harassment).
I was free.
Then came my teenage years, and as my self-consciousness grew and writing became formally graded and judged, sharing my thoughts became less safe. I started to worry about whether my ideas were ‘good’, and if I sounded clever; the outcome became more important than the process.
Over time I stopped seeing the point of writing 'just for fun'. I created reins for my imagination, exploring only well-trodden paths of thought. This was only compounded by my choice of a scientific degree at University, where any flair or emotion in writing was stripped away in the pursuit of objectivity, accuracy and conciseness.
I am quickly approaching my thirtieth birthday, and although I have a good life and am lucky to work in a sector I care deeply about, the sad fact is that nowadays the closest thing I have to writing is contained within Outlook and my Goodreads reviews. I've had every intention to start writing for myself again over the last decade, but the stifling pressure of perfectionism has choked me every time I've tried.
It's as though I will only let myself write (and share the outcome) when I can be sure that it will be perceived as 'good enough'. As Bo Burnham captures so perfectly at the end of his stand up Make Happy, millennials were the generation born to perform; our crippling self-consciousness and desire to be perfect was taught (and is only reinforced by comparison to others on social media).
I've looked for answers and reassurance wherever I can – interviews with authors, YouTube videos, podcasts, other blogs. I’ve asked everyone else except myself what to write, and how to do it. Yet I know deep down that at some point I just have to try - how can I expect to write something worthwhile if I don't practice the craft? How will I know if what I create is good enough unless I share it?
So, creating this site - and publishing this blog - is a promise to myself. A promise to be vulnerable and honest, and a commitment to the practice of writing (and being brave enough to allow it to be read). My ideas have moved on from knights and fairies, but underneath these layers of learned judgement and criticism, there is still a child who just wants to play, to share and offer something of use. And I owe it to her to try.
I’ll be honest with you. This scares me, deeply. I’m scared if you’re reading this, you won’t like what or how I write, or think me self-indulgent, or that I'm only adding noise to a space saturated with voices that will say the same thing better than me.
But if life has taught me anything so far, it's often the things that scare you that are most worth your time. And sometimes, you'll surprise yourself.
I’ll see you soon.