You know, there’s this small sizable too-big-to-admit part of me that wonders if I should even be writing at all. I wonder what am I doing writing this blog? Who will ever really care what I write here? Am I doing it just for myself?

Would I be able to go on with my life without it? Yeah. [one blog post in the last month. Please.] Sometimes I question my desire, and if it’s event the right thing for me. Sure, writing is an outlet. It absolutely feels cathartic to put it all down on paper blinkey-cursor-thing. But I don’t feel like I NEED it. I can achieve that same cathartic feeling from talking it out with a best friend, a good yoga session or finally letting it all hit the fan and breaking down completely. Am I really a writer? Why do I write? And if I really wanted to be here, in this space, I’d make time to write regular posts. Right?

oh, self-doubt. you are no friend of mine

Here’s what I do know:

• Writing helps me work through things. It helps me figure out what my feelings actually are on something, when nothing else seems to work. So although I’d rather use a real life person to bounce things off of, I know that sometimes to think clearly, I just need to get. the words. out.
• I’m drawn to it. I always have been. I’ve never really not thought of myself as a writer. No amount of self-doubt can really change that.
• I want to get better at it.

So I’m going to [try to] stop doubting myself.  And start trusting myself. The writing will happen. And if I’m afraid it doesn’t, I’m just going to do it anyway, dammit.