Writing Is Scary

It’s permanent. It’s intimate. It’s abundant and common. It’s all the things I’m scared of, which is probably why I love it. I’m getting worse at it. Maybe I’m not getting worse, maybe I’ve started proofreading. Maybe now I’m looking around me and seeing that other people own pens, thoughts, and dictionaries. I know people all around me who are good at writing, very good at it. It scares me to think that people other than those published can be good at such a dangerous thing.

What does it even mean to be good at writing? Oh good for you! You make scenery sound realistic! You make obvious statements sound pretty and insightful! You move people with your diction! You share with the world your perfectly detailed descriptions!

 Bah! Humbug.

Why did I have to start writing? I despite it. Every. Word. I. Choose. I. Can. Never. Change.

As ignorant and pretentious as this post sounds, I refuse to take it down. Because words are writing and writing is permanent.

Words used to be my favorite things. They still are, even though they’re escaping me. They laugh at me as they find their place in others’ mouths and minds. They dance their way out of my head, leaving it blank. I used to get lost in my words, the words that make up my thoughts. But now, my mind has nothing to say, and especially nothing to write.

I find myself clinging to people who can’t stop talking, their words will fly in through my ears and tune out the dull buzzing that’s been left in my head. I don’t think about things anymore, and can’t remember a time when I did. I need obnoxious clamor to drown out the silence.

I can’t even call myself lonely, there must be a reason for that but I can’t articulate why. I am alone most of the time.

People talk to me and then uncomfortably shift in the silence that hangs in the air. With the silence their unanswered question runs dry. I apologize with my eyes because my mouth has forgotten the words, I’m sorry. I’ll slowly stutter a reply, “I’m fine, how are you?” They’ll share a short sentence or two. At that moment I’ll want to cry. Say MORE! Please say more. I know it’s hard to talk to me, but I need you to try. I know it seems like I put forth little effort, but in actuality I’m doing the best I can. 

With little words, little can be done. And now my words have left me,


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