My self confidence is shaking enough on its own as it is. I fret over the notion of somebody standing over my shoulder, reading intently, scrutinising what I am about to commit to page from the bleak cave of my mind. I am a nervous writer, and with that inevitably comes a nervous disposition towards criticism. Criticism is part of it, but hopefully not from the ones I love. I want a critic to be faceless and unknown to me; that way, he cannot hurt me. But words are like knives, piercing and seizing up your muscles until you can no longer breathe. I’m forgetting why I wanted to be a writer in the first place: I used to write for me, but I fear I no longer can. I want my writing to be critiqued brilliantly, or softly at least. Maybe whispered at least on the small scale. Not brutally, with force enough to whip me in the face.
It is, to say the least, powerful what words can do. One day, I want to be the writer behind the words with power invested in them. But for now, I can only feel so feeble.