Why Is Being a Writer So Embarrassingly Scary?
Unfettered(ish) thoughts about the personal embarrassment of being a writer.
Writing in the digital age and social media sphere is really strange. When I first had an inkling that I might like to be a writer, I was around 10 or 11. I scribbled ‘notes’ into pocket-sized notebooks – does anybody remember those one-inch keyring notebooks? – and wrote short stories on the family computer, spending so much time on that ancient PC that I actually blew it up one evening. The electrical smoke scent never fully left that room. Writing felt joyous and exciting and invincible; my thoughts permeating paper. But writing now, in adulthood, when I’m a (copy)writer by day and writer/budding novelist by night? God it feels vulnerable and embarrassing and scary; my thoughts permeating paper.
I’ve been a professional writer by trade for 14 years now, and I’ve been oversharing on the Internet for far longer than that. With platforms like Substack and personal blogs and Instagram to instantly share the words I write, it’s both a comfort and terror to constantly feel ‘seen’ and experience this part of the writer’s lifestyle on a loop. So, why is being a writer so embarrassingly scary?
I’ve employed the autobiographical approach since I first began oversharing on the Internet. There was Geocities, then Bebo, then LiveJournal… All spaces where I could live my best Holly Hamilton from The Perfect Man (2005) life. I guess I have always admired Hilary Duff! Once I started school, I became incredibly self-conscious of how different my home life was a British-born Chinese girl from a second-generation immigrant family. I was always curious of others’ real lives, thrilled when primary school friends invited me ‘round for tea (tea meant dinner and was served about three hours before we ate at home. I’d always need a little bowl of rice when I got home!). I’d breathe in the smell of beautifully fragranced homes, furnished sparingly while feeling incredibly cosy, gaze at my friend’s carefully stored toys, love on their cute bunny rabbit pets. For a few precious hours, I had a window into a ‘normal life’.
As such, it makes perfect sense that I’d stumble into the world of personal blogs in my teenage years, eventually starting one of my own that’d rapidly grow to be a community of over 10,000 regular readers, generation over a million views per year. This autobiographical approach has become my signature. I create content loosely – or closely – tied to what’s going on in my life, a sort of one-step-in to oversharing. But, lately, it’s this exact act, this part of writerhood, that makes me feel vulnerable and (too) visible. People are reading the words I publish online for all and sundry to see?! Oh, how embarrassing for me!
In 2018, I leaned into a moment of clarity and unabashed confidence and hit ‘Publish’ on a personal essay titled Growing Up British-born Chinese. Up until then, I’d mostly written fluff pieces, lo-fi outfit posts and other things that paved the way for today’s influencer culture. It felt like therapy, a breath of fresh air to spill all of my unfettered thoughts and unapologetic experiences. Just an hour later, I could see the beautiful replies beneath the blog post. In that moment, writing felt joyous and exciting and invincible – in just moments, I’d found a group of people that either shared my experience or were genuinely curious. In that moment, after six years of writing professionally in my day job, I finally felt like A Writer™ for telling a real, personal story that resonated.
As time passed, I fell into a wonderful rhythm of the autobiographical approach. I felt more empowered to share my lived experiences as an immigrant daughter, through a British-born Chinese woman’s lens. My beauty reviews felt more authentic, my book interests ploughed further into uncovering more about my heritage, my essays blossomed even more personally. And isn’t that what all of us writers and readers are trying to reach? Authenticity and shared experiences oozing from every corner and crevice?
God it feels vulnerable and embarrassing and scary; my thoughts permeating paper.