To share or not to share.

To share or not to share.

I am probably guilty of over-sharing. Sometimes I do it to get a laugh, sometimes I do it to offload, sometimes I do it to embarrass my children; 37hrs of collective labour has bought me the right. (NB If you are one of my children reading this sometime down the line then 1. I don’t really think that my labour buys me the right to do anything as such, I’m just playing for gags and 2. Go tidy your bedroom!).

But at what point does over-sharing stop being funny, intriguing, interesting and start being cringe-worthy, painful, something that makes you want to switch off?

I’ve started several blogs in the last few days, all of which have been deleted, filed under “Let’s not do this”, “I think I’m gonna throw” and one in particular under “really!?” Mainly because I was sharing my current feeling about coming out of the six weeks holiday and back into writing. I suppose I keep deleting it because I feel like a fraud. I feel like a wannabe. It’s one of the hashtags I use when posting my blogs. But, what’s wrong with that?

To me there is something inherently toe-curlingly awful about being a wannabe. It’s a Harley Street visit short of tits, teeth and a bum implant. But, clearly, it’s what I am. I want to be published… (though I’ll take a pass on the implants) *pause* (for now). But I desperately don’t want people to draw the same association with my wannabe status. Whilst I’m sure there are many less judgmental than me, I’m equally sure there are just as many that do.

As with most professions in the creative sector there are people who aspire to achieve recognition for their passion. Within that there are those that are brilliant and those that are not. It’s the fundamental reason people use the word ‘amateurish’ to describe something they don’t believe is very good. Which isn’t the definition of the word at all. I know because I googled it.

Where am I going with this? I suppose I’m saying that if I were to explain in a blog post how I feel about the book I’ve started writing, I worry that you’ll think I am ‘just another wannabe’ who will never come to anything. And that may be true, anything is possible. But at the same time… anything is possible!

Perhaps therefore I’ll just say: I’m excited. I have butterflies. I am desperate to get back to my book. I am passionately in love with the characters. I feel fear and I feel confidence. I feel belief and I feel nervous. I may get to the end of this story and not give it the justice it deserves or I may get to the end of it and have written the best book I can write, at the moment, given my tender experience. And that book may be good enough to share with the world, and it may not. And that terrifies me too. On both sides. In equal measure…

Ahhh. There it is. Roll on the end of the six weeks holiday’s; it’s clear my neurosis is back.

Sorry if I’ve over shared.


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