I can’t specifically remember the last time I let someone read my writing unless it was to be turned in.

I do have fond memories of a confident 6th grader who thrived on her language arts class’s weekly creative writing assignments. That girl would have no qualms about reading her work in front of her peers if she was asked to. She may have blushed and spoken softly, but she would have been secretly happy to share.

She knew she was good but didn't brag (at least I don’t remember ever bragging). The writing wasn’t something to brag about, it was simply an assignment that the class enjoyed more than greek roots exercises. She never showed her writing to her parents, but she never showed them anything from school anyways.

If a piece got sent home separately and they saw, she didn’t mind and would be would be quietly proud of her work. That girl carefully filed away all those papers alongside the fantasy novel she was writing, complete with maps and origin myths and suspiciously Tolkienian names.

I don’t know exactly what dammed up that girls spring of creativity. It was probably the usual awkwardness and wrongfully executed attempt to fit into the high school social hierarchy. But whatever happened, that girl grew up and left her confidence crumpled up with the dust bunnies under a table in her middle school Language Arts classroom.

Only one of those writing assignments she loved so much still exists; a description of a sunset, so folded and faded that the graphite has all but disappeared, filed away alongside the yellowed notebook paper novel, untouched.

The person I am now makes me question everything.

I spend hours planning and thinking and dreaming, but rarely put one word down.

Why? Writing is still fun. It’s an act of creation. It has been proven time and time again to hold the power to change the world. But instead, I browse writing blogs and search “How to write a good personal essay” until I’m tired of looking at a computer screen. In some truly glorious acts of “productive procrastination,” I’ve read whole books in order to avoid writing.

I am scared of failing. I want to be the best. In some people - especially at WFU - that desire is a motivator which propels them forward into the world shouting “I want to be the best, so I will be.” But for me, that desire feels stifling, and instead, I just think, “I want to be the best, but that might not happen, so I’ll be content with my dreams about being the best.” I know I can do it. I can be a writer.

But there is always a creeping malignant feeling that all the good ideas are taken, that everything I write will be too cliche, that I will never have a lasting impact, and so I don’t try. It’s hard to fail if you never tried to succeed in the first place.

Bit by bit I thought I had been chipping away at this fear by journaling more, planning plots for a short webcomic, and procrastinating less, all things that were still not writing. Then, when a friend approached me about writing weekly, about anything I wanted, with no word limit, for an online site she edited for, I immediately turned her down. It was exactly what I needed, but the public visibility and deadlines scared the hell out of me.

So I said no. As the semester progressed and she refused to let me forget the proposal, the idea began to take root in my mind. Soon it seemed less scary, more like a challenge to be conquered. I told her I’d start the next semester.

At some point, I had to make a choice. Either I would forever be a very literary person who was generally good at writing or I could be a writer. But I had to commit. I couldn't continue to settle comfortably in this stagnant pool of potential creation and energy. Where it was once a fruitful spring of inspiration, all the life within had begun to rot and die: all the ideas stifled under the fear and indecision. If I wanted to change this, I had to actually try.

And so I am. It’s not perfect. I won't be writing acclaimed essays and captivating adventure narratives that the public will be reading and discussing for years to come. But I will be writing and creating, and re-learning how to trust myself and maybe, as the deadlines pass and I get comfortable knowing that others are reading my writing, my fear will start to diminish and I will begin to grow again.

In any case, I will try my best not to focus on potential outcomes or reactions for the time being, but just on becoming someone who can honestly call themselves a writer.