Words and why I don't write them

One of the biggest barriers to writing is that I’m always trying to make it fit a mould. I try to be a magazine writer, or a newspaper writer, or a 2010s young experimental London writer, or a copywriter, or a charity writer. And so I never get to discover what it is that I actually write. What kind of writer am I? I have no idea.

The society I live in judges writing so early on; it’s one of the first skills we’re graded on at school, our first experience of critique and criticism. There is so much pressure to write right. Drawing the letters, joining them up, trying to make them appealing to the reader so you can persuade them to stay engaged.

And there's more prerequisites before one is allowed to unleash themselves into the world of words. You must read at least one million books to learn flow, content, and form…and no of course you can’t share something with imperfect grammar and punctation, don’t be ridiculous! You’ll be laughed out of here, the shame following you for life.

In the end it becomes easier to fit into someone else’s box, where it’s safe, where you’re merely responsible for mirroring their style, writing about their chosen subject, and don’t have to risk exposing yourself. It becomes simpler to learn about structure and commas and correct others’ writings. Not only does it keep me safe, it gives me such power! Such superiority! Fuck the suffering and the pain of writing something and then reading it aloud to the people I’m convinced will definitely get it, because I feel they definitely get me, only to see blank and awkward faces stare back at me, their mouths sounding out opinions they think will distract from their loss.

I wanted to be a good writer and it sent me in every direction but the one I wanted to go in. Now I just want to write. From my heart, from my soul, about the important things, the ones I choose.

I am for ever making lists of how to become a writer. I have been convinced for a long time that there is a formula, a recipe to becoming a “good writer” that I will crack and that if I could just follow the steps then it’ll happen. But maybe there are no steps. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I just need to write. Or maybe I am a writer of lists, of plans and steps which I never follow because that wasn’t the real point.

And what if my vocabulary isn’t beautifully varied? Who actually wants to read something that requires the help of a dictionary…or is it a thesaurus? Who even has one of those these days? More of us should…or I should…but I don’t…and now the synonym function on my Word programme has disappeared, and so here we are. Boring words, samey words, all the words everyone knows, repeated over and over, making sense.

I remember feeling like there was a static amount of books, like it was possible to read them all if only I really, really tried, and I was unquestioningly certain that some people had achieved this. The people who had really studied literature and dedicated themselves to reading, the real people writers, not wannabes like me.

Already my brain is scanning the possible publishing options for this thing. Maybe I can use it to resurrect a forgotten blog or a neglected social media page…I can’t remember the point of writing when it’s not for likes, for reactions, for feedback…and this is how I got into this mess in the first place.

How do I find value in my work? How do I resist the multiple routes to quick external validation and instead believe these words exist even when they’ve only had one reader? Is it really real if no one has read it? I never believe you when you say it’s good anyway…what does that even mean? A* - excellent work. What does that mean? What do you feel? Maybe a B+ is better; “good, and here are some opinions”…although I’ve hated every friend who dared share any kind of constructive feedback. So nothing good comes from sharing, and nothing real comes from hiding. What the fuck am I doing.