I guess I don’t believe that I should. Ugh, that icky word. Maybe I mean: I don't believe that I can. I don't believe that I'm allowed to play it big, put all my cards on the table, dive right in. I’ve restrained myself from sudden movements as of lately. Lately meaning: years.
I used to say more silly sh*t than I do now... until I learned not to let my emotions get the better of me. Consequently, I also learned to numb my emotions when I’m scared they could get the better of me. I filled my time with things to avoid feeling fear. But numbing my emotions has dried up the creative juices that make me real.
This weekend I took a chance. I stepped out on a limb and decided to write these words without any obligation for editing. No editing makes me cringe. The incorrect grammar and secret emotions that might slip out through the ink of my pen, the type of my hands, worries me. But lately I’ve been so focused on being edited, that I haven’t allowed myself to be free, to be open, to be wrong, and to still be okay.
I want to get back to feeling alive, to playing, to enjoying -- without the fear of being wrong. Or perhaps to even delight in being wrong.
Two years ago I tried a little newsletter experiment -- weekly motivations sent out to a group of friends and extensions of those friends. It began as a creative release, a sort of pep rally for myself that seemed to appeal to a handful of others. But that effort died a year later underneath the heaping piles of my expectations.
My creative release had transformed into a productivity burden. There were weeks when I didn’t feel inspired and I couldn’t lift myself up, much less write a cheery newsletter. There were weeks when I knew readers would see that I was a fraud who didn’t know what he was talking about. Weeks when I was afraid of what my relatives would think as they read, surely they would judge how open I was about my private life. I spent more time reading my own words through the filter of other people’s eyes than I spent writing words.
The newsletter died because I stopped believing that I had anything important to say. I convinced myself that I was just another noise in the airwaves. I made my failures up in my head. I figured if I can imagine my failures, I'd be more prepared for when they arrived. Turns out, it kept me from writing.
Sure, maybe some people didn’t like it, or didn’t think I was correct. Sure, maybe my voice isn’t anything that hasn’t been done before. But those are just stories I told myself out of fear. It doesn’t make a lick of difference if they are true or not. Those stories shut me down. But I’ll be damned if my need to be perfect or to make everyone happy holds me back from doing something I love. Regardless of it’s terrible or if it’s great, it’s something that makes me light up.
So, yesterday I took a chance. Another chance.
I signed my name:
Ben Morton, Weekend Writer
On a dotted line as the newest tenant on a nights and weekend coworking space in SoHo. A space where I will say to myself: you’re allowed to write. Or sit there staring a blank page for four hours on a Sunday afternoon. You’re allowed to do that, too. But Ben, please stop scrolling to avoid doing what you must.
Yesterday I decided that I’m invested in my own self-love, no matter how scary or expensive that feels. And no matter how goofy or silly or dumb I look. I’m going to do it anyways. Because looking silly takes courage. And, at least this time, I choose courage over my couch.
This is me. Ben. The weekend writer.
See y’all again soon.