“Is the time coming when I can endure to read my own writing without blushing — shivering and wishing to take cover?” – Virginia Woolf
I don’t know how many times I’ve quoted Woolf on that: on looking back (at what you’ve written before) with a great sense of unease.
I recently read some of my oldest blog entries (some were exported from old blog sites to here, my current blog), and I cringed at every word. Who is this child whining? How terrible, terrible her attempts are at trying to sound poetic!
Truth be told, I also cringe every time I look back and read, not just blog entries, but actual work that I have submitted.
Despite the “Gah!”-ing and the “Oh-hell-no!”-ing, I am grateful for doing what I did, and blogging what I shouldn’t, because these are what kept my sanity intact for years. This is me, trying to make sense of the world I’m living in. This is me, constantly trying to psychoanalyze myself because I cannot afford a doctor to do that for me. This is me, drawing out the demons that have temporarily taken residence in my head. This is me, writing mainly for myself barely considering what the unknown readers might think (or if there really are readers). Online soliloquys. Online solipsism.
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