But it’s hard not think that way, especially when you’re out of practice.

I haven’t published a blog post in over a year. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t have anything to say, because I’m afraid that what I have to say is unimportant, or because I’m afraid I can’t do a good enough job, so there’s no point in even trying. Whatever it is, I do know that it’s based in fear.

Having something to say is heavily connected to whether we think that something is important. In my head, asking whether or not something I want to do is important always implies a comparison to experiences and works that are far beyond my capabilities. This is an excruciating way to view yourself.

The entire point of a hero is that you think highly of them. You aspire to be better than you are, and to be more like them in a way. Having someone who inspires you to work harder at something almost requires that you see them as better than yourself in at least some capacity. Constantly comparing yourself to them, however, is counter-productive.

My wife is a writer, and she’s great at what she does. I’ve watched her grow her talents, and her audience correspondingly, for the past few years, and I want to be more like her. Over the past few months, she’s had greater and greater success with her writing. I’m proud of her. I’ve been lucky to be here as she thinks aloud through her content and occasionally asks for my thoughts. I’ve been able to learn from her.

But I’ve fallen into the trap of measuring myself against her, along with other people I admire. I cannot be awesome in the same way they are awesome. Thinking that I can is only setting myself up for disappointment. Over the past post-less year, my fear of writing has grown. In my twisted brain, I’m continually using the success of others to admit my own defeats. I’ll look up to someone and inevitably fail to live up to the standards I imagine they have. It makes starting anything very difficult, and continuing almost impossible.

I know this is a problem, but I am plodding along. Restarting. Again. If only in a small way. Still trying to convince myself that my little thoughts and creations do matter. They matter to me. And I am allowed to be important to myself, even if what I do sucks in comparison to another. (It will.) Even if I need more practice. (I do.) Even if I don’t know what I’m doing. (I don’t.) And yes, even if I never show my work.

It’s time to figure out how to be my own kind of awesome.

I’m writing an album. There, I said it. Well, technically I wrote it. Not the album, just that I wrote I am writing one. Perhaps more precisely, I typed that I’m writing it. This is something I’ve been dreaming about doing for quite some time. It’s difficult. And I’m incredibly scared.

Writing an album is a concept that’s been floating around in my head and on various to-do lists for a decade or more, but I had yet to really start it. Fear is a big scary thing. I had this desire that I mentally pushed away, storing it in a tote somewhere in the garage, on half-finished lines folded away and hidden in a book, or completely drowned out with a wall of noise. But it sat there on my mental shelf, a bad film just wanting to be watched by someone.

I only wish I knew what I was doing. But let’s suppose that’s some of the fun of it.

A Little History

Music has always been a thing for me, not so much creation, but consumption. I remember hiding under my bed in 2^nd grade, listening to Thriller on an old cassette recorder, while taping the liner to the underside of the old wooden frame. I was introduced to Run DMC in 3^rd grade and stayed up entirely too late many nights of 4^th grade devouring Appetite for Destruction and …And Justice for All while simultaneously playing what are now considered classic NES games.

It wasn’t until I was seventeen that I asked for a guitar for my birthday. My parents frighteningly agreed—reluctant, if not for the standard reasons for buying a teenager an electric guitar—and my dad found an ad in The Trader for a guitar and practice amp for $100. It was horribly wonderful.

I played and played.

I didn’t write a song until I was nineteen. To date, in the sixteen years of playing guitar, I’ve only written perhaps six songs and only recorded demos for three. And of those three, only one was recorded by me. I don’t know what gives me the idea that I could pull this off. I only know that I need to do this.

Just Starting

The hardest part was actually starting something. Not just kind of starting, but really starting. For far too long, all I did was shuffle around the same partial ideas or organize yet another “someday” list. I never did sit down to do any actual writing. Now, I have.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve sat down for hour or so blocks, two or three times a week, to do some free writing. It’s not easy. And most everything I’ve written is horrible, terrible, no good or very bad. There are, however, a couple of lyric worthy phrases and, overall, I have a more solidified idea of what I want this to be. I have almost become encouraged. It’s time to pick up the guitar and start listening for melodies and possibly stringing together something that may resemble music.

Into the Fog…

If my fear of not knowing how to write a song is overwhelming, then my fear of not knowing how to record what I write is indescribable. This is quite possibly because I’ve not spent much time on multi-track recording. I may manage by fumbling through it, but I also have a dear friend who has offered to help. And I honestly can’t wait to be able to take him up on that offer. For now, I must get back to my steno notepad, which may be half full, but it’s only the start.