I really love writing.
For me, saying this takes a tremendous amount of courage, because writing is a somewhat heavy and pretentious thing to love. When an adult says they love writing, it almost feels equivalent to saying: I’m very good at writing.
I’m absolutely not. My writing and my literary taste are almost complete opposites. I hate myself being so expressive. I can’t seem to learn restraint, or how to leave things unsaid. Sometimes when I look back at my own writing, I can very clearly see a woman waving both arms, yelling at the top of her lungs, running naked straight toward me. It’s really quite embarrassing. And very unsophisticated.
But I don’t want to pretend either. I don’t want to write myself into someone I’m not just to get closer to my own literary taste. So I can only accept this very unsophisticated version of myself and bravely say: I love writing. That’s it.
I loved writing essays when I was in school. I could write even the most formulaic school essay with ridiculous enthusiasm, trying as hard as I could to squeeze something “interesting” out of that tiny little framework. Then I grew up and finally gained the freedom to read and write whatever I wanted, only to somehow lose that primitive impulse to express myself.
I’ve asked myself why. I think one reason is that the unconditional love I had for literature as a child gradually became mixed with a great deal of self-censorship. The other is the ridiculous pride of adulthood, which has made me highly guarded about sharing anything.
Not smart enough. Not deep enough. Not sophisticated enough...
And I really think reading a lot of books (especially when you’ve read a lot, but still haven’t read enough) can make you deeply insecure. You realize that reading is an infinitely tall mountain. You climb until you’re exhausted, look up, and there’s still this enormous crowd of people all around you.
Worse, the whole reason I read is that I want to write. Every time I try to put something down on paper, I get this strong sense that I have somehow assumed a position I haven’t earned. All those people are still reading. They haven’t even started writing yet. How do I have the nerve to start already?
But I still like myself best when I’m writing. When I write, I’m extremely honest. That honesty gives me an almost religious sense of peace. All those voices that are usually so loud: What will people think? Do I sound stupid? Is this sentence smart enough?—slowly go quiet as I write.
In the end, there is only me. I really like being alone with her for a little while.