The Most Dangerous Writing App

I did something brand new this week.  I opened up the most dangerous writing app and spent 5 minutes writing down my stream of consciousness.  I had 5 minutes, and I had to keep typing or else all progress would be lost.  This is what I wrote, heavily inspired by Jeff Goins' newsletter, which I read religiously in 2011.  It'd be hard for me to articulate why, but I think it's important for me to publish this here.

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Here we are, together, reading through my writing.  I'm not really sure what I'm doing or why I'm doing this, but I want to be a writer.  I want to be good at it.  And I want people to read it.

The trouble is, I'm not always sure what I have to say.  What value can I add to the world that hasn't already been churned out by hundreds, thousands of others.  Thousands of other writers who've been doing this for years.  Thousands of people who are better than me.

And I know what they say.  There's always room at the top, and nobody ever starts there.  But isn't the space at the bottom just too saturated?  Can there really be a place for me at the table?

And I know what I need to do.  I need to practice.  I need to put myself out there.  I need to find people who will critique and suggest and build up and tear down my work.  (It sounds so professional and "together" when I call it "my work.")

And so, as I move forward into the uncertainty, into the fear, into the insecurity, I must keep writing.  Because I believe that deep down, I am a writer.  I suppose, I hope, that I just haven't fully blossomed yet.  I hope that some day I'll cross that invisible line.  Someone will tell me, "Lindsay!  You're a writer now!"  And I suppose that's what I've needed to hear this entire time.

I've needed someone else to tell me I'm a writer.  Or maybe, I've wanted someone else to tell me I'm a writer.  Maybe, I've just needed anyone at all to tell me I'm a writer.  Maybe I can tell myself.

That's what I'm going with.  For today, at least.  Because as I remind myself (sometimes), Van Gogh told us that when someone tells you you're not a painter, by all means, paint to shut them up.