It’s always so petty, that moment.
“I don’t have any good ideas.”
“I don’t have anything interesting to say.”
“I will misspell a word and people will judge me for not being the best at never making a mistake in my writing, all of the time, always.”
“I will incorrectly use effect/affect as I may have done above. Wait, did I incorrectly use effect/affect?”
“People will just rip whatever I say apart and hurt my feelings.”
Look, writing is supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be “because.” It’s important not to lose track of how much greatness happens when you hit keys or write words on paper that are out-of-control feelings you’re dying to share with someone.
There’s some huge misconception about writing—that the people who call themselves writers have any idea what they’re doing. Like everyone thinks they’re Jane Austen or J.K. Rowling or whoever your “whoever” is.
I think people should always write.
It’s easy to overthink it. To think that any piece of writing that you do has to have a point, some giant bigger meaning.
But it should be enough to know that when you write something, anything, it’s like a lottery ticket. Someone could read it and could laugh uncontrollably for the best of reasons. Someone could read it and become violently angry at your view on something (or your “non-view” for that matter). Someone could read it and feel absolutely nothing.
And any one of those things is spectacular.
Because, that’s the “because.” Write just to write. It’s healthy and there is always an amazing off chance that it affects someone more than you had any idea it ever could.
So people might hate what you say. They might really love it. They might feel nothing. Any one of those things is oddly terrifying.
But they will read it.
There’s always the off chance of that, and that’s the whole reason you wrote in the first place.
To make some tiny little piece of you available to anyone who may want it.
It may not be a handwritten calligraphy note, but it’s enough.
It’s more than enough.