Writing

Occasionally, I read something that makes me want to stop writing. A few years ago, I read parts of a book that an acquaintance had written. It was awful! I immediately wondered if my writing was just as bad, and I just hadn’t realized it yet. What if I were just adding to the sewage of bad writing that is already out there?

I have the same reaction to good writing. When I read something beautifully crafted, I feel like I have no business expressing my half-baked thoughts in cliché-ridden prose.

This reminds me of a ceramics class that I took where we were supposed to make a bowl. My attempt at a bowl ended up embarrassingly crude and goofy--it made me laugh every time I looked at it. It became a receptacle for my spare coins. I gave up on ceramics after that one class—deciding that the world would be better off if I left pottery making to those who were more skilled than I.

I realize my writing is often lumpy and lopsided—but it has become a receptacle for my thoughts. And if these spare words can be useful in any way to anyone—even if it is just to me—then it has achieved its purpose.