Writing opens us up; it allows us to be our most basic human self. It makes us light. Writing strips away the armor that molds to my ribcage, restricting me…but no bird ever flew so high that it didn’t have to come down. Writing opens us up to criticism, failure, and as someone who chases the contrived idea of perfection, misunderstanding and negativity weigh me down. My elation quickly turns into a graceless descent: I sink. It seems like everything I’ve accomplished doesn’t matter.
I am not a robot. I am not impervious to insults and bad news and the roller coaster-ing emotions make me dizzy. But if I choose to shut myself off to this negativity, I limit my potential and the beauty that I am known to create. People do not tell me that they like my work because they know it’ll make me happy. They tell me because they feel that they should. This is not completely altruistic, but not totally selfish. I am thankful for those that encourage me. And I should be equally grateful for those that doubt me. They push me on. They help me to be better. This is not an uncommon feeling. I just had to get it out.