I’m reading a book on social anxiety, because I believe in knowing your enemy.
I wrote three different versions of this blog post and deleted them all, because sometimes trying to write about anxiety is enough to trigger my damn anxiety on its own.
For all that it’s hailed as a solitary profession, the anxiety I feel about writing certain things is inherently social. It’s the fear that one’s secrets will be revealed, that the things you do will invite harsh judgement that is terrifying correct; you are actually stupid, or unlovable, or worthless, and now the con you’ve played thus far has been revealed for the sham it is. Society anxiety tells you it’s better to hide, or avoid the situation, rather than risk such exposure.
Writing invites people to judge you. It hangs your ass out there for posterity, which means your mistakes and shortcomings can be rediscovered long after you left them behind. You may draft alone, just you and the keyboard, but writing only comes alive once other people read it. Opening yourself up to other people’s judgement is part and parcel of the gig.
The vast majority of the writing tasks that set of my anxiety share the same trait: I’m doing something new and unfamiliar, or using a new and unfamiliar system. Anything where I have to learn what I’m doing at the same time I’m trying to figure out how I want to do it, increasing the odds of fucking up or doing subpar work.
The rest is just my anxiety going off like a warning siren, waring me I’m crossing a line and revealing something that should best stay private. Sometimes that siren is right, and it’s time to delete the draft and find another way into the thing I’m writing.
Sometimes, it’s best to ignore the anxiety, and see what happens when the work is sent out into the world.
