The picture up above filled with wine glasses, bottles and comfort food? That’s the result of bloggers unraveling amongst other bloggers. It was the everything we’ve wanted to discuss but had no one to discuss it with moment. It was Morgan’s infectious laugh, Tyece’s mid-sentence twerk sessions, Noelle’s too good for TV stories, and Roconia’s shedding of her bashfulness. It was “Yes, I’ve been there,” and “He did what?”, and “I’m afraid to write about that too!” That Saturday was the Sisterhood of Writing in our absolute raw element: naked within our truths.
And then that evening happened.
That evening, a group of us were participants of “When Pen’s Collide”, an event we now know to be the ultimate writer’s experience. We read each other’s pieces in front of a live audience and became undone in the public eye. We unraveled once again, but this time our emotions and cores were exposed to strangers, and I’m sure most of us didn’t expect this at all, but a bond was formed from simply being present in that gallery. But as we shared intimate details about ourselves through our writing and and laughed after the waterworks, I couldn’t shake this one very strong feeling.
The feeling that I didn’t belong.
In fact, the more pieces that were read outside of my own, I knew I didn’t belong.
They were poetic. They flowed smoothly. They had structure. They invoked ‘oohs’, ‘aahs’ and a few ‘yaaaaas girl’. The audience snapped their fingers. They painted scenes immaculately. But my work was less flowery, they were rants more than personal essays, and descriptive words? They lacked. I’m not sure if anyone noticed how small I felt after each piece was read, but the sense of lack was strong. Don’t get me wrong, I love my work, they’re my words, they’re my story (well some of it), but they stuck out like a sore thumb, and I can admit that.
I didn’t go to school for writing, or journalism, or communications. In fact, any literature or writing class at my alma mater was seen as an elective. I’m an engineer. My day job is a systems analyst . And seeing that I don’t have the same background, I think it causes a great amount of insecurity. Hell, I panic every time I press publish.
I think I’m more of a blogger, than a writer. Sometimes a makeshift storyteller, sometimes your midday motivator, but not necessarily a writer. Or what I constitute as writer anyway.
And with this recent win of Best Personal Blog, somewhere between excited, shocked, and undeserving, I now understand why I’ve shied away from YS.com this year, and why I blog less. I don’t want to portray myself as something I’m not, I’m not quite sure if I fit the mold, and I most certainly do not want to disappoint. I’m just not sure where I stand here in this writing world, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out.