Writing, per se, is scary. Writing to be read is horrifying.
Imagine that risk you put yourself in when you expose your choice of words, your thoughts, and a precious piece of yourself to – who knows how many – people. You throw a sentence or two onto their table and give them the permission to ignore it, to praise it, and to criticize it (and of course, you want solely that one of those). Still, you look at yourself now, and you recognize that writing is scary and writing to be read is horrifying, but you want to write anyway.
You look at yourself and see how you are a writer who has a thousand or more words to share whilst “readers” don’t even know the letters of your name.
You are a writer who is ignored for those days you braved the page and produced a good carefully-written piece.
You are a writer who hangs on to a promising future you see in your head, but who, every day, sits at the desk of reality which is mostly messed with a crappy longhand essay and rarely cradles a masterpiece.
You, sometimes, find yourself scanning your blog, or page, or profile, and your confidence gets deeper to its nadir at the sight of the few responses your writing pieces gathered. You begin to ask, What use are my written words to other people’s lives anyway? Why should they care?
But you surpass this sort of days. You overcome yourself, and hold the pen again and again. Writing is scary and writing to be read is horrifying, but you can’t help but write anyway…for when a man finds love, he becomes a fool; for all great writers are lovers, and you simply want to become one of them.