Writers’ insecurity

I’ve been thinking about writing, among other things. My motivation for it has changed over time from desire to need. I feel like I repeat myself a lot so I went back to retread old blog posts. I wanted to remember what I had written so I didn’t rehash old ideas more than necessary. Wow. No wonder people tell me I’m a good writer. Those first few musings are old enough to be new to me, creative writing at its best. My writing now is motivated in a large part by my self imposed deadlines and an urge to write a book that will 1: provide me passive income and 2: help direct public opinion away from end demand, the client is the enemy mentality. I feel like it’s changed the way I write. I no longer let my thoughts flow through the keyboard, I push and shove them, trying to make them fit the thought of the day. Instead of thinking “that would make a great blog post” I think “would that make a good blog post? I’ll write it down just in case.” Writing is structured and bounded and as I write that, it takes me back to one of my early posts in which I mention freedom in boundaries. Perhaps the boundaries and pressure of writing a thought already formed isn’t a bad way to write. Perhaps I can use that to form meaningful ideas and share them with the world, albeit the small part of it that reads my blog.

I don’t pay attention to statistics so I don’t actually know how many people read my blog. I also don’t open comments because I get so damn much spam and it seems unhelpful to wade through dozens of spam attacks for one or two meaningful comments. I get a lot of feedback in session from gentlemen who find the blog enticing, reassuring, something that tells them I’m a safer bet than others. Or maybe it’s something that makes them feel like they know me better. Certainly knowing someone is better than not knowing them when you expect to be backed together within a half hour of meeting them. I also get the occasional email letting me know they appreciate my work (I haven’t replied but I saw it and thank you for your kind words.)

Perhaps my feelings of, not writers block but writers insecurity, may lead me toward more free and open penmanship.

Speaking of, I won’t be taking my computer with me on my trip. I figure while someone might steal that, no one’s going to steal a journal so all my writing will be done by hand, on paper, in an actual book. My partner did a lot of traveling years ago and still flips through old journals sometimes. I’d like that experience. For the same reason, I’m going to buy a bunch of those shitty disposable cameras and look forward to the mixed blessing of film. It’s so clear, so candid, but you can’t really tell if a photo will turn out. I expect some silly photos, maybe half-selfies, some odd or outlandish landscapes, and some really terrible shots. But that’s part of the fun: interpreting the modern hieroglyphs of carefully oxidized chemicals to find the meaning, the moment behind them.

I’m looking forward to watching my elegant blue pen draw boxy letters again and again across the page. I already bought a fresh journal. Not that fresh means anything since I don’t really journal anyway, but it’s new, ready for my first overseas adventure. I don’t even remember what’s on the cover, a quote or something, what matters is that it has lines and lies flat on the spine so I can write from margin to margin.

I packed today. 11 days, 20 hours until departure. My clothes will stay in that bag until we check in in Reykjavik. I am excited. I am terrified. But mostly excited. I’ve never been to a country that doesn’t have English as a major language. That won’t change until the end of the trip, but it will change and it’s exciting but also makes me nervous. What if I make someone angry and I can’t fix it? Words are my offense, my defense, my pride, my security, what happens when they’re useless? I’m sure I’ll be fine, it’s not like I’m entering a war zone (though we’ll see how Brexit falls out) so I don’t really have anything to worry about, but it’s a big deal, visiting another continent for the first time.

My partner chimes in from the couch “what are you writing?” He’s heard the tip tapping of my keyboard off and on all day. I’ve written four posts today to keep up my Thursday updates while I’m overseas. Some are easy: copy/paste, edit, post, but some take thought and the pressure of productivity stunts those thoughts. I use the word ‘I’ too much. I talk about myself and self analyze too much. My book review is too subjective. I can only see the opinions of the author through my own lens and it feels so damn shallow!

I’ve been reading the presidents’ biographies (plus a few First Ladies) and they are both inspiring and demoralizing. They did so much, were so flawed, and I am by turns faced with my own inadequacies and motivated to recreate their accomplishments within my own tiny sphere. I am not a small personality; I crave recognition and admiration but cringe at the idea of underserved respect. There is no room left for me, with a small group of wealthy, educated friends, to create an anti rely new country. That is absolutely some of what motivates my desire for decriminalization. I want sex workers and sex work historians to write about me, to appreciate my life’s work, to give me the longevity only accomplishment can earn. I also want to open a cathouse but that’s another issue.

Look at me: lamenting my self centered worldview by analyzing myself and posting it on the Internet for all to see. I could buckle down, work harder, make money, and retire but that feels hollow (now at least. We’ll see how I feel at age 65) in the light of what I could accomplish. I’m usually pretty good at bringing my posts back to a theme: I love my work, I love my clients, and I want decriminalization. I’m pretty sure that this tirade, this odd and sudden baring of the soul, is tied into how I feel about my work and my life but it doesn’t take center stage this time. It’s almost as if sex workers exist outside the role of sex worker, haha! There it is, my one-two punch for sex workers rights.

I’ll be out for a walk soon and then to bed. I’ve got a relatively busy day tomorrow, good since I’m missing out entirely on next month’s income, and I should get to bed at a reasonable hour.

…time passes…

I wrote that at the end of a long cerebral day of writing.* I’m still new to this whole writing thing so I’m not used to the feeling of mental exhaustion and physical restlessness that comes with that. A few days’ perspective helps my mental recovery, coupled with a cup of coffee with a new friend and general good will toward humanity. I feel better but I want to hold on to that self analysis and give myself the freedom to write freely and glowingly again. This post feels like a step in the right direction.

I won’t write a new blog post until after I return and write up excerpts from my journal, thoughts, and recollections of adventures. Everything that will post throughout September has already been written, edited, and scheduled to publish. I’m looking forward to the freedom of freehand and the absence of deadlines, self imposed or otherwise.