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Adventures in Writing
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway
Ever since I can remember I’ve had a diary or a notebook by my side. I wrote stories in crayon as a child and poems in pink pen as a teen, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night so sure that what was in my mind must be written down that I’d roll over and stay up all night just putting pen to paper.
But I’m terrified of writing. Terrified of referring to myself as a writer. (So pretentious, that word.) I’m terrified not so much for the writings sake but for the reading of it on the other end. “What will people think?” I worry until all the notebooks of my life are squirreled away under beds, or in boxes, or now, in folders in Dropbox somewhere on my computer.
“The scariest moment is always just before you start.”
― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
In undergrad I studied Communication because my father asked me to and English because I loved it. I loved to read (still do). My mother tells stories of mornings in my childhood when I’d wake up to find her reading, and before I could actually read myself, moving to sit next to her with my own book in my hands, held upside down, pretending.
