Ugh. I feel the need to write something but it feels like everything I write is either
a.) Terrible, or
b.) Liable to put a target on my back.
And for some reason I haven’t felt like dealing with those particular flavors of anxiety this month. So sue me.
Hell, I’m pretty sure the last draft I started was both terrible and liable to draw fire.
This post itself is terrible.
It’s the gnawing fear that even the people who think I’m pretty good at this whole writing gig will inevitably see through my facade and realize that no, I suck, I just got lucky with a few word choices in the past, like a one-man Shakespeare’s Monkey.
It’s the cognitive dissonance of flipping through someone else’s book and saying “Man, I could do better than that”, but starting on a blog post and thinking “this is the worst thing ever written by any being with opposable thumbs, and that includes animals who consider poo-flinging to be an acceptable mode of self-expression.”
It’s the creeping anxiety that if I write something too controversial, I’ll wind up seeing it reposted by someone far more influential than I am, and then I’ll have to deal with the sort of ridiculous harassment that has become synonymous with internet discourse.
Ah, catharsis, how I’ve missed you.
And then, of course, actually going into my drafts folder is its own special kind of hell, forcing me to confront the fact that I have nearly as many unfinished pieces as posted ones, and that I’ve been looking at things like “Three Things I Hate About Tolkien” and “The Christopia Manifesto” for over a year now and I still can’t quite bring myself to finish them.
I’ve got drafts that are so dated now there’s no point in completing them, because bitching about Obama’s focus on a mission to Mars over a permanent moon base is pointless when Obama’s about to leave office next year.
For the third time I tell you: Ugh.
Ah well. Tomorrow is another day, and another chance to re-purpose some title I was going to use on a bit of news that’s now tragically irrelevant.