on writing

There’s something addictive about writing. Something addictive in creating that impenetrable fortress of words. Each word chosen with precision, each clause marked with the appropriate punctuation, each counterargument accounted for.

But still, there’s also something terrifying about it. No matter the feelings of power writing may evoke, it is still so unbearably, torturously, horrifyingly humiliating to memorialize the things you think in language. To admit that you believe the words you write are worthwhile. The shame curdles pride.

The duality of life, I guess.

There’s this quote from somewhere I don’t remember about what not being creative does to creative people. It makes you neurotic, obsessive, crazy. I’m obsessed with writing and obsessed with not writing.

I’m trying to be better, then. Trying to write more and spiral less. Trying to make more friends. Trying to be better.

And this is how I’m doing it. Every day of this summer, I’m committing myself to writing and publishing something on this blog. Maybe it’ll go somewhere, maybe it won’t. But I want to be changed. And I’m willing to do anything to feel that.

Cover art is Automat by Edward Hopper.