I write in my head a lot, and it’s one of my favorite distractions. It’s almost thrilling being able to totally lose myself in imagination. And I also think about how great it seems, how I’m going to transfer those thoughts into prose and actually write a decent story for the first time. But it never happens. The images start to fade, and for some reason I don’t fight to get them back. I hold onto the parts I like the best, but eventually I lose that too. Sometimes I try to figure it out again, although it never comes together in the way it once did, and it feels like a small loss.
Something is rekindling my interest in creative writing. It’s odd because I’ve always liked writing and stories. It seemed natural to merge the two interests and write them myself. But I always felt so self-conscious. I don’t know why because most of the time I had no intention of actually showing my writing to someone else anyway. But I was hesitant to cast my thoughts onto something that could be seen, could be discovered by someone, anyone, who I didn’t trust not to judge. I’d stuff journals into closets and under mattresses, password protect word documents, take all kinds of precautions, yet the insecurity and feelings of exposure never entirely went away.
So maybe for now, I need to practice building confidence.