This Shouldn't Be Difficult.
Advertising dictator David Ogilvy said that headings should not end with periods. Otherwise the audience will stop reading before they get to the body copy.
But this isn't advertising, and evidently you're still reading this.
For most of my life, I've loved to write. A blank sheet of paper cripples many people but inspired--excited--me. I could fill it with whatever I wanted to, whatever crazy fantasies I could dream up, whatever words flooded my mind. My thoughts could leak onto paper for others to enjoy. And I'm not some arrogant so-and-so--lots of people throughout my life have said, "You should be a writer." People who already love me. People who hate me. People with the letter E in their names.
I don't write so much anymore, however. With the exploding popularity of blogging and other anonymous forms of publishing, you'd think I'd be wallowing in sheer joy. But a blank screen terrifies me. An automatic stream of negative thoughts, swimming just barely under the surface of my consciousness, assails my creativity. It hurts. And I don't want to write anymore.
Today at work I had to write a paragraph. My company's sending out gifts to its friends, and I had to compose a few lines to tell recipients why they were getting free stuff. A painful chill shot down my esophagus, scratching my stomach raw. I kicked the assignment around in my head like a soccer ball, only I'm not athletic in the least, so I kept missing my target. I had a general feel for the rhythm of what I wanted to say, but the actual words eluded me. At first I tried to personify the company, comparing to a kindergartener; eventually, the words appeared in my brain, and I had to interrupt another task in order to scribble them down:
Nothing says "Celebrating Five Years in Business" like a limited-edition poster. And it's yours. Free. Just for being a friend of [company]. Thanks for your support.
I wasn't sure whether that would suffice. It seemed too short. Maybe too flip. Maybe too informal. Maybe it missed the point. Maybe better words could have been used. Maybe no one would get it. Maybe I'd have to do it over completely, using a different approach.
Or maybe it's just fine, and soon 200 people will see that note enclosed with their free poster.
Why the self-doubt?
But this isn't advertising, and evidently you're still reading this.
For most of my life, I've loved to write. A blank sheet of paper cripples many people but inspired--excited--me. I could fill it with whatever I wanted to, whatever crazy fantasies I could dream up, whatever words flooded my mind. My thoughts could leak onto paper for others to enjoy. And I'm not some arrogant so-and-so--lots of people throughout my life have said, "You should be a writer." People who already love me. People who hate me. People with the letter E in their names.
I don't write so much anymore, however. With the exploding popularity of blogging and other anonymous forms of publishing, you'd think I'd be wallowing in sheer joy. But a blank screen terrifies me. An automatic stream of negative thoughts, swimming just barely under the surface of my consciousness, assails my creativity. It hurts. And I don't want to write anymore.
Today at work I had to write a paragraph. My company's sending out gifts to its friends, and I had to compose a few lines to tell recipients why they were getting free stuff. A painful chill shot down my esophagus, scratching my stomach raw. I kicked the assignment around in my head like a soccer ball, only I'm not athletic in the least, so I kept missing my target. I had a general feel for the rhythm of what I wanted to say, but the actual words eluded me. At first I tried to personify the company, comparing to a kindergartener; eventually, the words appeared in my brain, and I had to interrupt another task in order to scribble them down:
Nothing says "Celebrating Five Years in Business" like a limited-edition poster. And it's yours. Free. Just for being a friend of [company]. Thanks for your support.
I wasn't sure whether that would suffice. It seemed too short. Maybe too flip. Maybe too informal. Maybe it missed the point. Maybe better words could have been used. Maybe no one would get it. Maybe I'd have to do it over completely, using a different approach.
Or maybe it's just fine, and soon 200 people will see that note enclosed with their free poster.
Why the self-doubt?
posted by J. Carryll Thomas at 7:49 PM
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