Writing is difficult.

I don’t mean that the act itself is difficult. Sure, it’s easy to formulate sentences and apply them to various mediums, but writing, in the literary, academic, or even intuitive sense is difficult. Before becoming a writer (a term I loathe as far as self-description, but find painfully necessary at times) I scoffed at the idea of writer’s block, but now, as a budding academic, amateur poet, and professional devil’s advocate, I find it to be all too real. Whatever exists between my mind and the medium is magnanimous and visceral. I obsess over words and phrasings, I nitpick every detail, I trash anything that I deem unsuitable. Sometimes I sit back and read over something of which, in the moment, I felt so proud only to reach a tipping point and think “God, what shit.” The most important aspect of writing has to do with self-confidence, which, I’ve found, is seldom present in those that choose the written word as their means of expression. It’s okay to not be confident sometimes, it’s okay to feel self-doubt, but it’s incredibly difficult when those things get in the way of how you deal with those issues. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. I cannot eliminate my self-doubt without writing and I cannot write because I am full of doubt. That is where I find myself now. I am incapable of properly putting pen to paper, in the metaphorical and literal sense, and that frustrates me. Nothing feels good enough even when it is and the obsession for that written perfection becomes as impossible to manage as the perfection is to obtain. And so I trudge along, forcing myself to write something every day, even if it’s just something small and insignificant, in hopes that I find some spark that will break down whatever barrier stands between me and how I wish to say what needs to be said.