There’s something about writing, about calling oneself a “writer,” that instills deep feelings of self-consciousness and doubt within me. I’ve never been bold enough to consider myself a “writer,” not truly, despite the fact that I’ve been journaling since I was 9 and do indeed write things that people read from time to time. 

Even now, in writing just this short bit of text, I’ve already edited and rewritten and erased three other paragraphs. 

There’s an insecurity that hovers over you as you write something for public consumption - a fear that readers will misinterpret you, or worse, that they’ll give absolutely no fucks about what you have to say.

When writing, you wonder to yourself, “Will anyone care about this beside me?” “Is this completely banal?” “Do I sound like an asshole and/or a narcissist?" These are real fears, because writing about yourself with any amount of frequency necessitates a certain level of self-importance and narcissism, and it can be difficult to step outside of yourself long enough to predict how others will perceive you. 

Despite any praise or recognition I’ve received for my writing, I still approach the task of writing with fear and uncertainty. Some of this fear most likely stems from my history of sex/relationship writing, and all of the scrutiny and criticism that came with it.

However, I’d like to get back into the habit of writing more frequently around a wider range of topics, beyond the activities that take place (or don’t take place) within my bedroom. I feel like I’ve been discrediting myself and have been avoiding writing about a number of things, out of a fear that I have nothing new or intelligent to add to life’s discussions.

But I’d like to tell you everything. I’d like to tell you about my life and all of its random coincidences and insanities, about my observations as a 25-year old working in the tech industry in beautiful San Francisco. I’d like to tell you everything about me, unfold all of myself before you, and eliminate the fear that’s settled deeply in my chest that you won’t give a shit about me, because that’s no way write, and that’s no way to live.