I’ve been thinking about starting a blog for quite some time. In fact, it’s been over ten years of contemplation. Which to any one’s measure, is far too long to contemplate a thing.
If I’ve learned anything from putting myself online and making content in this last year, it’s that you have to just start, and then figure out the logistics later. Taking that leap, making the first TikTok, or YouTube video, is scary, but it is also thrilling. It’s taking a step into the unknown, where before you had only imagined, and now it is real.
But with making videos on social media, there is a level of control. People can see your face, understand your tone, and you can edit it to your hearts content, but also its transient. I post a video, I made something that was not there before, expressing an opinion, people see it and react, and then we all move on to the next thing. It is rare for my videos to have a lasting impact, with a few expections, and that is the way I prefer it to be.
Writing, on the other hand, feels permenant, and personal, in a way I find difficult to express. The idea of my writing, including this little blog post, being out in the world is all out terrifying to me.
I think perhaps it’s because I’ve come upon my creativity later in life. In fact I have always shied away of naming myself creative or artistic in any way. I studied science and economics, and steered away from pursuing art and literature in any serious form.
But I have always loved books. You will know this about me if you have come upon this blog from any other corner of the internet where I reside. Books are my enduring passion. I love stories, of course, but also memoirs, academic books, even cook books. I will read anything that can teach me something, give me a new perspective I have never considered, and impart some knowledge, thought or feeling within me.
So why have I undervalued my own creative perspective for so long?
I used to insist I was a reader, not a writer. Not talented enough, not creative enough to put my own words onto paper. I consume stories, I would say, I can’t create them. Even when the first spark of a story came to me, years ago now, I downplayed it, even to myself. Everyone has at least one story within them, I told myself, and this one can be mine.
So, with that dubious internal permission, I started writing. I let myself pretend it was just a game, to see how far I could get before I gave up and decided it wasn’t for me. But, as I wrote, the story grew. It evolved, it changed, and it changed me too. There are time when I wouldn’t touch it, leaving it languishing in a forgotten word document for months at a time, but in the back of my head, there it was, like an old friend, growing and learning with me.
Two winters ago, I was in a job I despised, feeling like I was losing an essential part of myself. Feeling small, squashed, and lonely, I decided to take out my story, and try to make it real. I look back now on that November as one of the turning points in my life. I wrote. Every single day. And I was consumed. This story, these characters, sprang to life,and raced of the page, excited to finally have the attention I had for so long denied them. Editing didn’t matter, making it “good” didn’t matter, all I needed to do was keep going. And so I did. I wrote 50,000 words in 30 days, and I finished my first draft of my first book. I was elated. I cried. And then I put it away again.
Stories matter. To those we share with others, but more importantly, those which we tell ourselves. I told myself all I wanted to do was finish it, and so, that is all I did. The book, and how I felt while writing it, were lost in the back of my mind, shoved back down, and forgotten. I had long decided my job needed to end, and to find a new path in life, but it took finally quitting to realise that that new path needed to include writing. This past winter, I dusted off my story, and started writing the second book in the series that had been developing in my mind for the previous five years.
So now, here I am, two shaky rough drafts, and no idea where to turn next. I have realised, while I love writing, I hate editing. It panics me, makes me doubt myself, and throws me into a deep spiral. I am hoping that starting a blog, a place where I can write with no pressure, will encourage me to build up some confidence in my own creativity and go back to these books, and finally finish off book number one. I need to get over the surge of panic when I think about someone reading my writing, and judging me, like I have read, comsumed, and judged so many before me. But my courage comes from my belief that writing is more important to me than my fear is.
So, hello, and welcome to my blog. I hope you enjoyed my first ever public post. If you didn’t, don’t tell me. Or do actually, haters are good for the engagement.
Love,
Lydia