Despite my best efforts, I sometimes (always) worry about what others think of my writing. It's definitely been getting better (the more I write here¹, the less I think about it), but it's still there.

This is something I've been wondering about for a long, long time. It comes from way before I even started this blog. Ever since I was little, I've always cared about what others think of me. I guess I was always an insecure kid, struggling with social anxiety, defining my own self-image, and being sure of my self-worth.

When I was little, it was a lot worse, I think, especially during those early teen years. But there was a pivotal moment that helped at least start on the road to improving this condition. It happened during an art class in what was maybe the first year of middle school.

The art class period was immediately before recess, and I'd stayed behind after everyone had left because I knew I wanted to draw well but for some reason just couldn't manage to do it. I don't remember exactly what it was I was doing or why I stayed longer than my classmates, but I remember that eventually I finished the assignment, and when I gave it to my art teacher she looked at it, then looked at me, and in all seriousness said,

"What do you think of this work"?

"Well, I think it's really bad, I don't like it", I answered.

I still remember how she looked me straight in the eyes as a warm smile suffused her face.

"I think this work is really great, you have a real talent. But it doesn't matter how good you are, it doesn't matter how many times I tell you this, if you don't see it yourself, if you don't believe in your own work, then no one else can do it for you. You have to believe in what you do".

I was slightly baffled. "How did she know"? I kept asking myself. How did she know I really have no regard for my self-worth? We probably had chatted about this same thing other times, but this is the only occurrence I remember.

After that, I thanked her and walked out of the class, and everything else is a blur.

I rarely think about this moment, but the fact it's stayed with me definitely means it was important. Ever since then, my own relationship to what I do has slightly shifted. I guess growing up I did have external support, but for some reason I just didn't develop the necessary self-esteem.

As I said in the opening paragraph to this post, I still worry about what I write, or really about anything I create, but it is true that my reframing of the whole thing has changed a bit. Now I think also about what I like rather than just what others might like, which gives a whole lot more energy to the process. I've found that if I'm not clear on what I like, then the pressure to make will be there, but it dies even before it can get started, strangled by the (imagined) opinions of others.

...

Some days ago I was thinking about this and realized how silly it is that I worry about some things and not others. I actually realized this while I was on a plane over the weekend, coming back from my work trip (see last post for context).

I was on my Switch playing yet more Caves of Qud when I realized I'd been going about in circles for a while. I laughed at myself and thought that if the folks behind me knew anything about the game, they would also find it funny. I found this idea made me happy; I like entertaining others. It hit me that playing CoQ is really not all that different from any other sort of performative activity, so why was I okay with folks laughing at me (with me)? I definitely wouldn't be happy if someone laughed at a drawing I made or something I wrote², so what's the difference? Why do I take these things so seriously?

There are other, maybe more artsy, things that I don't really mind people seeing me do. I like sculpting and have lots of fun making weird stuff whenever I'm at the beach. It's usually really crappy, but that doesn't matter since I don't do these "constructions" for their aesthetics, more because I enjoy the process. ... Ah! I think that offers us an important clue: the "why do you do something". Well, I do enjoy the process of writing and putting silly words together, so while this aspect is important, it's probably not it.

Maybe let's flip the approach and instead look at things I do care about: already mentioned drawing and writing, then there's also singing³ and playing an instrument. For all of these, I feel a sense of "shame" in the act of performing. Actually, there are also a few other activities that I find weirdly shameful and might fit well into this group: meditating, yoga.

Now, if I reframe the question to think about things I'm not ashamed of, then it's easier to expand the above group. I'm not ashamed of programming, nor of brainstorming with people about topics I know nothing of (like the nature of the mind), nor am I ashamed of crocheting⁴, nor making websites (which is a sort of painting, I guess?), nor of 3D modeling (which I also know nothing of; it's a sort of sculpting). I can think of a few others, but I think we already have enough.

Initially I thought what all of these have in common is that they're things I'm good at, but that's not really the case. I'm not really any good at sculpting, and I was not always good at programming or crocheting (I'm barely a beginner at crocheting now). Something that they do have in common is that I don't force myself to feel any better at them than I actually am.

Not sure how to properly explain this last point. It's like, I know I'm not great at making sand sculptures, and that's totally fine. It's actually exciting, because there's a lot of stuff I can learn and improve, should I want to. Same for all the other things I mentioned, actually; at one point or another I was (or am) excited to learn more so I can improve. I recognize I have a lot to learn, but that's really inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

For all the things I am ashamed of doing, I do see that the inverse is true: I try to tell myself I'm maybe better than I am. Maybe there's a subtle lie in there somewhere, and the shame is actually a balancing force? That makes sense, but if there's a lie with, for example, my drawing, I don't really see it. Or maybe it is something that goes on at a much more subtle level. Maybe at some point I wanted to be good at drawing, or I admired people who drew, and I still relate to that desire as I did when I was a kid.

A therapist once told me that when we're young we sometimes acquire ideas, fears, etc., that we never truly resolve at the time, and carry them with us into our adult lives. The tricky part is that even as adults we still relate to these things as we were when we acquired them. I'm pretty sure that if I learned about "drawing" or "writing" today, then I would be excited to learn and improve rather than hesitant and cagey about it. I think there's definitely some merit to this idea. It at least supports why thinking about these issues rationally often yields little result. It could be that what happened is that at some point my younger self decided it was better than it was at these things, and now that lie is creating friction in my adult life.

I think I might be approaching these issues in the wrong way. Right now I'm hoping that just by doing "lots" of it (writing in this case), that feeling of aversion will slowly go away. As I said above, it has improved, but the core part of the aversion to sharing is still there.

What I should probably do is heed my art teacher's advice a bit more. Over the past couple of years of blogging I've found that the initial resistance always dissolves away once I start writing and get into the "fun" groove of it. The issue is never with the time I actually spend doing the activity, but the time in between. Before starting I feel hesitant. Some time after completing the sense of impostor syndrome builds up.

Maybe her words are to be interpreted as "believe in yourself, believe you can do it". I do have ample evidence that I can do it, even though every post feels like the first one, feels like it won't flow. Her words are also a call to taking charge of what I think, of choosing to stand behind myself.

As Harry Potter famously said:

“I knew I could do it all this time,” said Harry, “Because I'd already done it... does that make sense?”

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Footnotes

1. Especially when I manage to convince myself to write as I enjoy writing rather than as I imagine others might like I write. I feel every post helps to slightly rewire my brain. ↩

2. Unless, of course, it's purposefully funny :P ↩

3. Though through exposure, I think this has greatly gone away. Of course, I would be terrified to sing in front of a group of people I don't know. ↩

4. Which is not something I do much of anyway, though recently I made myself a couple of fingerless gloves that turned out great! Very functional, at least. ↩