Something worth writing

I’m not entirely sure what to write, but I better get started. I figure if I spend enough time writing, then two things will happen. I will learn how to write better, and I will figure out whether I enjoy it or not. One big threat to my writing is the ever-lurking anxiety of performance that I feel. I have a tendency to jump ahead in my mind to what the outcomes might be, who might (or might not) read it and whether I can make any money off of it. Those things should all be secondary at best though, the most important thing should be my enjoyment and fulfillment. Feelings of accomplishment and that deepness that I can sometimes feel when having expressed myself clearly and honestly, that’s what I’m after. I know this format may seem like it is going for quantity, but in reality I believe a lot of quality has had to give way to perfectionistic tendencies and overambition. So here we go, look at me I’m already way down the sheet! So what could I possibly write that would make it worthwhile to read? I’m thinking that every human being has a completely unique personality and life-journey, and if that personality and that journey could somehow be persisted and laid bare on a piece of paper, then it would indeed be worthwhile in its own right, no matter how dull or trivial the experience might seem for the individual himself. I guess what really must happen though is a moment of nakedness and authenticity. Just writing mundane details about a life can indeed remain dull, no matter how unique the specific set of details. But with the required level of nakedness comes an inevitable fear of exposure. Some of this fear is tied to the lack of control as to who might eventually read it, but this is not the whole problem. It would be a trivial matter to make sure the text can never reach a strangers eyes. Well, trivial enough. But I realize that I have a much greater fear regarding someone much better known than any stranger — my future self. Will he approve of what I write today? Will he judge and be embarrassed that he was once me? Or will he show the compassion and tenderness, the forgiveness and humility that would be required of him to enable me to speak freely of the things in the present? The irony is clear in that at least to some extent, it is in my own hands to shape that future version of myself to hold these traits that I am so desperately hoping to acquire and to hold at that time. Nevertheless, it is that very power over what I become that has lead me to judge myself in the past. It is a dilemma for sure. But fear shall not stop me.