Issues with Expression

Expressing myself has never been one of my strengths. As of this moment, I am yelling at the keyboard (and myself) for typing anything. Those two sentences you just read? Those were revised and removed at least two times before making the final cut (and even then, their longevity is tentative).

So I think it goes without saying that I have some self-expression issues. I've known this for the past few years but never really treated it. It was like some sort of benign tumor; present and bulging, but not very threatening at the time.

Garsh, typing out anything more than 140 characters is taxing. Let's add short attention span to my list of psych-impairments.

Like many of my media brethren, I at one point saw myself as some kind of grand artist, someone with the capacity to make poetic statements about life and the human condition as well as entertain the masses. Like most of my media brethren, I was (and probably still am) pretentious and snobby.

Well, a genius I am not. I don't think a genius would be stopped so easily by a case of writer's block. Some of my peers at Grand Valley State University (coughJeffcough) feel the desire to create content but don't know what to say. I'm the opposite: I know what I want to say, just not how to say it. The classic dichotomy of style verse substance prevails.

I guess this gets easier as I go, but is still incredibly (and unreasonably) hard for myself to throw myself out there like this. Maybe it all stems from a fear of being judged. Sensible enough, but this seems like really severe cases of self-consciousness and self-worth issues. Sometimes I see myself in the third person and makes me very (or just somewhat, but to whatever degree, whatever) self-aware of myself in how I interact with others. Which, in turn, lends me to being more conservative until I have had enough time to assess my various social scenarios. I think most people refer to this as the time it takes for them to feel comfortable with a group of people, but I like to think myself smarter than most people anyway (hint-hint, I'm not).

My musings probably read like a schizoid on an alright trip. Given the family history, there may be some truth to the former. I'm drug free otherwise, I promise.

Normally I hate it when writers directly address their readers the way I have been. It always reads as some failed attempt at humor that feels sorely out of place in an otherwise decent piece. But, as I'm finding, it suits my style for the time being.

I also must profess that I'm not actually too witty. Snappy, yes, but that should not be confused with wit. I'm naturally more ironic than clever, so I'm going to try real hard to not attempt to be witty or clever when I conclude an entry.