Graphic by Megan Eloise/The Gazelle

A year ago, if you had asked me to read something you wrote, my answer would probably have been, “It’s terrible, I hate it.” Because a) if it’s bad, then obviously I hate it and b) if it’s good, I’m envious and therefore still hate it.

Recently, however, I’ve started questioning this approach. Due to my own doubts and hesitations when it comes to writing, I’ve become a bit more empathetic to the Frankensteins, Grendels and Voldemorts that plague the imaginations of my fellow writers.

After all, beginning a piece of writing can be scary.

Have you ever walked down a street and seen a ray of light cast its reflection a certain way, or heard a voice so charming in its uniqueness, or observed time in a manner that left you with a conundrum to solve? Moments like these strike me hard. And by hard, I mean violently. And by violently, I mean that their inspirational value can be represented only on a polynomial curve approaching infinity.

Of course, sometimes it isn't that easy. Sometimes, inspiration is the godforsaken magician’s rabbit that never seems to appear in the hat when you need it to. Sometimes, I’m left staring at a page that remains hopelessly barren, wondering if I will ever find the courage to stain it with the tip of my pen and dent it with the impact of a word.

Scientifically speaking, this occurrence can be explained using the principle of inertia. The amount of energy and force required to start something is tenfold greater than the amount required to continue it. In literary terms however, the experience goes something like this: you are caught in a storm and engulfed in a hurricane of your own thoughts. It’s like stepping into another world – or chaos – in which you are the sole resident. And your hurricane is defined by tumultuous torrents of fear.

Yes, fear. A pure, honest-to-goodness fear of jotting down even the shadow of an idea.

The fear stems from things like the dread of failure, criticism or not being accepted. But what terrifies me most about writing is the fear that what I intend for you to understand will never reach you. As a writer, one must create a plastic form out of abstract things like sorrow, joy and love. One must put onto the page sounds as sweet as the original notes of the instrument, movements weaved as intricately as the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy and colors that sear as deep as the paintings of Les Fauves. But how am I supposed to ascertain that you envision the same red, ring or rhythm as the one that I’ve written? It’s like shooting an arrow, but not knowing if you’ve hit the mark.

Fret not, writers. You are not alone in facing these obstacles.

I’m coming to realize that all this inner questioning and criticism does is leave me with a heavy burden upon my soul and a malnourished imagination. It’s the lack of a start. It’s over-thinking. It’s the fear of not living up to an oxymoron that keeps my inspiration from the exponentially increasing polynomial curve.

So go ahead and give it a try.

Write a page. Shoot your arrow.

And trust your intuition that you have indeed hit your mark.