Some people suffer from writer’s block. I suffer from writer’s anxiety.
On the one hand, I find myself with a compulsion to write. On the other hand, I fear being read.
“Why not just pour your words into a private journal then, to be read by no one at all?”
A fair point, for many an amateur artist paints watercolours to be hung on their own walls alone.
What forces the amateur writer to bring their work to the world, to be critiqued by all?
Does the amateur gardener feel compelled to open his garden to the public, for guided tours?
But then few amateur actors would be content performing only before their family at home.
Some people have a fear of missing out. Others a fear of being missed, slaves to their ego.
How many times have I withdrawn, only to return? Such is this strange compulsion to write in public.
Activists, extremists, social engineers, would-be hackers and trolls: all of these would drive me to silence, forcing my retreat back into my private realm.
But just as I spin into lockdown, a voice within demands, “What about your genuine readers?”
How many are they? A mere handful. So what? You wouldn’t be able to tolerate any more!
As you can see, I have no idea why I chose writing as a hobby.
On the one hand, it’s a release for all I hold inside. On the other, it’s the cause of such ceaseless anxiety.
I think I’d rather have writer’s block than this perpetual inner agitation. Perhaps it’s time to find myself another hobby altogether.
Last modified: 16 September 2024
