I have a bad habit of doubting and second-guessing myself. That’s true of deciding what to wear, what color to paint my bedroom, and especially true of my writing. I could easily sit down and type whatever pops into my head at that particular moment. But would it make sense? Would it be worthy of being read? Would you–those of you who know me in person and those who only know me through this blog–view me differently if you really knew what was rattling around inside my head?

You see, I want you to like me. I want you to like my writing. I want you to read it and be moved or challenged or convicted or encouraged or maybe even amused. I want to make a difference, not just fill up white space. And so sometimes when I write a little voice inside my head starts to murmur about how no one’s going to “get” me and how I need to just keep my thoughts to myself and save my writing for something that’s really weighty.

But lately I’m thinking that I’m not writing for you anymore. I’m thinking that I need to start writing for me. And maybe I’ll be the only one who reads it and “gets” it. Maybe I’ll write about things that are embarrassing or heartbreaking, really deeply personal stuff. Maybe I’ll be the only one challenged or encouraged or amused by my writing. And I’m starting to be okay with that.

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