DISCLAIMER i wrote this while bored on a slow, tough day at an internship. Not my finest moment to be quite honest. But I guess I won’t delete this post
I almost failed my pottery class in seventh grade. I decided I was bad at art. Creativity. Creation.
Why do I have a fear of sharing what I write? Is it bad? Too artsy fartsy? What defines “good” writing from “bad”? Where do I put the question mark in that last sentence?
Is it the degree to which it captures my emotions? Can something as human as writing even have a “good” or “bad”? Is it before or after the quotation mark?
Maybe the real measuring stick is just authenticity. Raw. True. Aren’t my experiences as real as anyone’s?
I think too much.
How alive am I willing to be? Am I just scared to face life and tell it what it’s like to be me? How I’m solving my mortal experience? My 21 years on earth? Is it because I don’t know the rules for a semicolon?
Am I so afraid of cringe that I’d rather find refuge in silence?
My pinch pot was silent. My silent pinch pot earned me a D, according to Mrs. Thayne.
