I was listening to Stephen King’s book On Writing this morning on my hour-long commute to work. He spoke of the early stories he wrote, and for a few minutes that made me question whether I really have the writing bug. Does the fact that I didn’t start writing until recently mean that I’m not a real writer?
Then I remembered the story he led with–an exhibition of the world’s strongest boy that ended with wasp stings and smashed toes. Now, I don’t think I would have done anything like that when I was a kid, not because I was afraid of getting hurt, but because I was afraid of anyone seeing me doing anything out of my comfort zone. What if they laughed at me or thought I was stupid?
Fear and shame have been my longtime companions, and they have led to frequent bouts of self-doubt. This self-doubt has kept me from pursuing writing because I never thought I’d be good enough or that people would like what they read.
Thinking back, I know that I created stories in my head, but I never put them down on paper. So, I know that the well of creativity is there, waiting to be accessed. Interestingly, I continue to feel the same doubt, but I’m pushing through it and writing anyway. That feels good.
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