Oh, how I struggle to finish things. A big hearty salad, a cool Harry Potter puzzle, season one of Portlandia– you name it. Unfortunately, there are also some bigger things I also struggle finishing. A new script, a promising poem, season two of Portlandia. The interesting part is: these are all things I enjoy. Not only enjoy, but some of the few things that bring me genuine happiness. I love writing, like, a lot. However, with every word, I’m terrified of messing up. My standards for myself are at such unachievable heights that I don’t either bother. Meanwhile, if a close friend writes a sentence with a compound word, I assume they will become the next Jane Austen. How does that make any sense? Logically, I understand the only way I can improve and grow as a writer is to, well, write. It’s pretty simple. Yet, here I am writing about how I can’t write while procrastinating actually writing something I want to write. I’m adorable!
Now that I’m going to college, I feel as if every word must live up to some new, higher standard. In my head, I say, “What? A movie about a sushi chef with a pet fish who must face the morality of his work? Get your shit together, Mehrnaz! This isn’t the little leagues anymore!” It’s really scary that I’m thinking this way when I’m only eighteen, because I don’t think I can keep it up forever. Yes, I could actually attempt to mend my broken self-confidence roots or learn to trust myself, but I guess we can save that for when I actually burn out. Right now I’m just scared, but I suppose even writing his babble of thoughts is a good start. That’s all I guess. I wish I had more to say.