I’ve spent far too long wondering why I don’t enjoy writing. I’ve questioned myself every time I turn away from a story, an essay, or an idea I’ve been living with for weeks. This dream I have, of being a writer, of telling stories that matter, sharing ideas and experiences to comfort others, I’ve had it for years and yet I am terrified of pursuing it. 

I used to read for pleasure. Every moment I had I spent with my nose in a book. I used to write for fun. I’d share chapters of novels I had in the works with my friends on the school bus and periods between classes. I can’t do that anymore. I used to think I lost my spark—I lost my passion—but I never lost my love of writing. My drive was just drowned out by fear.

Each time I open a new document it’s like I’m facing that ghost all over again: silent, terrified, and alone. I drown my ideas in silence; suffocate them under seas of sheets, and shut them out from the world because I’m terrified. Terrified of peeking my head out and finding that ghost right in front of me, looming, haunting, laughing. I’m scared the world will reject my writing, that my ideas aren’t worth sharing, that I’d be much better off just hiding. 

But this piece is made up of fragments: bits of thoughts, ideas and metaphors from diary entries, voice memos, and untitled documents. Not the drafts I spent hours on using metaphors I was sure were acceptable. Not the words I spent days forcing myself to write, thinking they’d be perfect. No, these are the fragments I wrote for myself. The ones I wrote without the pressure of perfection looming over me. The ones I meant to hide, silence and forget. The ones I disregarded as ‘imperfect’. And honestly, they are far more interesting than anything else I wrote for this project. 

Trying to force myself to climb that mountain, live up to the suffocating standards that I set, was stifling any enjoyment I should have been getting from writing. 

In those moments, I hated writing and I hated myself for feeling that way. 

I already know why I chose to be a writer: The few times I’ve been able to push off those covers, stare my ghost in the face and just write have left me with some of the most beautiful, meaningful things I’ve created in my life. Did I struggle to write them? Of course. 

Every single word had me gritting my teeth asking myself if it was good enough. Are they perfect? Of course not. Perfection is a misconception—the standards are subjective at best. They can’t be perfect because perfection is impossible—I know that now. In the end, though, that didn’t matter because I was happy with them. I was proud of my work. That was good enough.

The thing is, writing is scary. With every word, you bear your soul out to your readers. Every sentence is imbued with your views, values, and experiences. Being that vulnerable is difficult enough on its own. Finding the right words to do it, and doing it in a way people will actually want to read, is a challenge that feels insurmountable sometimes. But it’s worth it. It’s gruelling, haunting, and suffocating, but it’s worth it. 

So I will continue to face my ghost. I have no doubt I’ll fail sometimes—that I’ll turn away from my work, wanting nothing more than to pull the covers over my head and hide. But when I do so I’ll try to ask myself not, “Why are you hiding?” but instead “What are you hiding from?”. I will no longer allow myself to be haunted by this false definition of a “worthy writer”. 

I will write, and that will be enough.