Blog 91 - The Honest Author

Blog 91 - The Honest Author

November 2025

Let’s be Honest, when I first dipped my toes into the vast, sometimes terrifying, ocean of blogging, I had a crystal-clear mission. It was going to be all about writing. Pure, unadulterated, writer-centric content. I envisioned myself as a literary tour guide, meticulously documenting my grand adventure of becoming a published author. My posts would be filled with the nitty-gritty of my creative process, the thrilling (and often frustrating) quest for an agent, and all the personal angst that comes with staring at a blank page, willing words to appear.
I imagined readers nodding sagely, perhaps even taking notes, as I dissected my thought processes, revealed my drafting techniques, and shared the wisdom that I was (hopefully!) accumulating along the way. It was going to be a focused, insightful, and, dare I say it, a professional blog. A testament to the discipline and dedication required to navigate the literary world. Well, it seems that my brain, as it often does, had other plans.
A week or so ago, I found myself procrastinating (a writer’s perpetual dance partner, so I’ve found out) and was re-reading some of my older blog posts. It was a nostalgic trip down memory lane, a chance to see how far I’d come, or perhaps how much I’d stumbled. What I discovered, however, wasn’t just a reflection of my writing journey. It was a revelation.
My blog, the one I’d intended to be a meticulously curated showcase of my writerly prowess, had morphed into something far more profound, far more revealing, and, if I’m being embarrassingly honest, far more human. It had become an avenue of release. Looking back, it was obvious that I was so determined to keep the "writing" theme front and center that I'd inadvertently built a bit of a facade. The early posts are full of carefully crafted anecdotes, filtered thoughts, and a general air of someone trying to project an image of competence and control. I was showcasing the idea of a writer, not necessarily the messy, glorious reality.
However, somewhere along the line, something shifted. Perhaps it was the sheer volume of words I'd poured onto the screen, or maybe it was the growing comfort I found in this little corner of the internet. The dam of carefully constructed professionalism began to creak, and then, with a gentle sigh, it burst.
I found myself writing about things I’d never intended to share. Not just the typical writer’s moan about rejection slips and plot holes, but the deeper, more vulnerable aspects of my inner world. My insecurities, my self-doubts, the anxieties that gnawed at me when I wasn't actively engaged in the act of writing. I started admitting to the sheer terror of putting my words out there, the internal critic that screamed louder than any editor ever could, and the strange, addictive thrill of pushing past the doubt, ignoring that inner voice and continuing to write.
It wasn't a conscious decision, this shift towards radical honesty. It felt more like an organic unfolding. The digital page became a safe space to process emotions, to untangle complex thoughts, and to simply be. I know this might sound conceited, or a little self-congratulatory, but I realized that the courage to be vulnerable in my writing was, in itself, an act of courage, and that this vulnerability was actually making me a better writer, or so I thought.
True, there were moments, reading back, where I blushed. "Did I really write that out loud?" I'd ask myself. Had I really admitted to the paralyzing fear of not being good enough, or to the moments where I questioned my sanity for pursuing this often-unrewarding path. It went on, I baulked at the fact that I had shared the giddy highs of a particularly productive writing session and the crushing lows of a day spent staring at a blinking cursor. And nearly died of embarrassment when I realised that I had opened up on a much greater scale than I had originally intended.
This blog, which began as a rigid blueprint for my writing journey, has become so much more. It's a diary, a confessional, a playground for my thoughts, and a sanctuary for my anxieties. It’s where I can peel back the layers and reveal the sometimes-frazzled, often-hopeful, always-evolving human being behind the writer.
It's become a reminder that the act of writing isn't just about crafting sentences and constructing narratives. It's also about understanding ourselves, about processing our experiences, and about finding our voice, not just on the page, but within ourselves. And sometimes, the most profound insights come not from trying to teach, but from simply sharing the raw, unfiltered truth of our own messy, beautiful journey.
So, while the “how-to” of writing might still sneak in from time to time, I’ve decided to embrace this unexpected evolution. My blog is no longer just about my attempts to become a published author; it’s about my journey as a person who writes, and the incredible, liberating power of allowing yourself to be truly seen. I unreservedly apologise for whatever comes next but honestly, it feels like a story worth telling.