The Paradox of an Introverted Writer

As someone who has been writing since she discovered the art itself, my battle with anxiety has created a difficult environment where I feel comfortable sharing.

It was an eerie, awkward feeling that many of us can empathize with. Wanting to be seen, but how overwhelming it can be to finally be seen. Whether it’s by loved ones or people on Twitter, the world feels like it stops when you notice that someone is watching you.

I’ve always written for myself.

My imagination was one of my forms of escapism. Building a world or space where I can tend to my needs and emotions was the priority. And I know for a fact I wasn’t good at it in the beginning, but hey, we all start somewhere.

Now that I’m approaching a space where I want to grow in my craft and seeing that I can write for other people, I’ve accepted that that also requires me to be able to feel comfortable writing with my chest.

It’s no longer about what other people feel or think about Angelica. About her word choice. Her tone. My writing is mine for the same reason all artists have their outlets.

Expression and healing.

I’m no longer filtering my writing, or how I write, to anyone. I’m no longer going to require myself to write a certain way or a certain style. If I want to write poetry for 7 months, I will. Maybe I’ll switch it up with a short story. Maybe I’ll do a blog post.

I’m trying to be selfish for once… To be selfish, but in a way that is beneficial for me and what I need to be the best version of myself.

I’ve complained before that people don’t read.

I’ve complained before that people aren’t looking for me to write anything.

Those are excuses and I’m acknowledging them as they are.

And they aren’t getting in my way, anymore.