Does the proverbial tree in the forest make a sound if there’s nobody around to hear it?  I’m starting to feel the same way about me and my writing.  Can I call myself a writer if no one’s around to actually read my work?

Writing is scary.  It’s personal, telling, and intimate.  It forces you to confront feelings, insecurities, and all those deep, dark thoughts that you could never imagine sharing with anyone else. And I’m supposed to share it with the world?

What if people read what I write and think it’s bad? Do I have anything important to say? Will anyone be interested? What if my fragile dream of becoming a professional writer gets crushed when I realize I’m not good enough?  

Eye-roll at the coming cliche, but: I’m getting old.  I’m at the age where I’m supposed to make those childhood dreams a reality, or at least attempt to.

I don’t find inspiration easily. I’m not particularly motivated without incentive.  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to do something for the pure enjoyment of it.  But I felt like there was a point that I needed to commit to this.  To being a writer, to opening myself up, and attempting to do something – be something.  Even if I fail.

So be gentle with me.