re-introduction

it's been a while...

I have the writing itch again. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt it. I swing so wildly between consumption and creation, and now I can’t seem to hold it in any longer. The past year and a half has been such a whirlwind. But at the same time, it has been such nothingness. A void, a lull in my creative spirits.

I think I got comfortable.

I think I got scared.

I want nothing more than to write, to share my ideas with other people, to communicate my feelings in a way that makes myself and others feel seen, feel moved, feel scared. But there is so much fear inside of me.

I remember one morning while I drove to work, I burst into tears sitting in traffic at the thought that had formed in my mind:

I wish I was brave enough to be an artist.

I’m not scared of creating; I’m scared of someone else finding out that I created something. Instead of dreaming of being a writer, I think I actually dream of being a ghostwriter. I want the pleasure of creation without the terror of recognition. I don’t to create publicly because I am so scared of failing publicly.

This though, this little diary of mine, doesn’t have to be scary.

I think writing on here can be my own exposure therapy. I am exposing myself to the terror of being known, and I am learning not to mind if what comes to be known isn’t desirable, isn’t profitable, isn’t easy on the eyes or the heart. My words don’t need to bring fame or fortune or even a kind eye from a passing stranger. They just need to make me uncomfortable enough to bring me ease. Maybe they can bring you ease, too.

To see me tiptoe out onto the highest limb of the spindly little sapling of my creative spirit. To wade into the depths, toes unable to brush the silty river bottom. I’ll kick wildly at first, I’m sure. You would, too. Then, I’ll calm. I’ll exhale, empty my lungs, and sink down to the silt and slime—the innermost depths of what I find myself capable of. And there I’ll find comfort in the cold ache of the water, the hot coals glowing in my lungs, the pressure sitting somewhere between equalizing me and caving me in. There, I’ll be just uncomfortable enough to make something I’ll be proud of.

If you find you may be interested in the same ideas, feel the same unease, ache with the same creative ache, please subscribe and follow along! My little diary doesn’t need to be just for me—it can be for anyone that feels the intense parasocial urge to know someone else through their performance of personhood alongside the unfortunate preference of a slow and painful death over being known themself.

So, yes, let’s parasocialize. But let’s also therapize. Let’s get deeply uncomfortable in order to find comfort within ourselves while in the midst of our creative processes.