I keep a little quote taped above my desk. It’s not fancy. The paper is curling at the edges, and there’s a coffee stain that refuses to fade. It says:
“To write something, you have to risk making a fool of yourself.” — Anne Rice.
I read that line almost every day. Some days I nod like a wise old monk. Other days I glare at it like it personally wronged me.
The First Time I Felt Ridiculous
I still remember the first time I shared something I’d written with another human being. My hands were sweaty. My stomach felt tight, like I’d swallowed a brick. The room smelled faintly of printer ink and dust. I hit “send” and immediately wanted to crawl under the desk and live there forever.
I wasn’t afraid of bad grammar. I was afraid of being seen.
Writing puts your inner mess on the page. The odd thoughts. The private worries. The stuff you never say out loud at dinner. Once it’s written, it’s not just yours anymore. Someone can laugh. Someone can shrug. Someone can misunderstand the whole thing.
That’s the fool part.
Writing Is Not a Safe Hobby
People love to talk about writing like it’s gentle. Like you sit there with a candle, soft music, and a calm heart. That has never been my experience. Writing feels noisy. It smells like cold coffee. My shoulders tense up. My brain throws tantrums.
Every time I start a new piece, there’s a moment when I think, “This is dumb. I sound dumb. Who do I think I am?”
Anne Rice didn’t sugarcoat that feeling. She didn’t say, “Be brave.” She said you have to risk looking foolish. That hits closer to home. Bravery sounds noble. Foolish sounds embarrassing. Real life tends to lean toward embarrassing.
The Fear Never Really Leaves
Here’s the annoying truth: the fear doesn’t vanish once you’ve written a lot. It changes shape, though. Early on, I worried about sounding amateur. Later, I worried about repeating myself. Now I worry about honesty. Real honesty. The kind that leaves fingerprints.
I can write a ghost story without blinking. I can write about grief, longing, or desire, and my pulse picks up. My fingers hover over the keyboard. The room feels too quiet. The radiator clicks. The clock ticks louder than it should.
That’s the edge where the fool waits.
Why I Keep Doing It Anyway
There’s a small moment, usually late at night, when a sentence lands just right. The words line up. My chest loosens. I exhale without noticing. For a second, the noise shuts up.
That moment only shows up after the risk. It never arrives during safe writing. It never comes from polite sentences that offend no one and reveal nothing.
I’ve learned that if I don’t feel a little exposed, I probably didn’t go far enough.
Looking Silly Is Part of the Job
I’ve written things I’d never say out loud. I’ve admitted fears I’d rather pretend I don’t have. I’ve reread old work and winced so hard my face hurt.
And still, I’d rather have that pile of awkward pages than a perfect silence.
Silence feels neat. Silence feels controlled. Silence doesn’t change anything.
The Page Can Take It
One thing I remind myself on bad writing days: the page doesn’t judge. It doesn’t roll its eyes. It doesn’t whisper to friends later. It just sits there, blank and patient, waiting to be filled with something real.
People might judge. That’s out of my hands. The page just wants honesty. Even clumsy honesty counts.
A Quiet Kind of Courage
I don’t think Anne Rice meant public humiliation. I think she meant private courage. The willingness to say, “This matters to me,” without knowing how it will land.
That kind of courage isn’t loud. It happens alone, in a room that smells like yesterday’s coffee, with sore shoulders and tired eyes. It happens when you write the sentence you want to delete.
Why This Still Matters to Me
Every piece I care about started with that familiar dread. Every one. The fool feeling never stopped me for long. It just let me know I was near something honest.
So I keep the quote above my desk. Crooked tape. Coffee stain. Daily reminder.
If I’m going to write, I have to accept the risk. The awkwardness. The chance that someone won’t get it.
That’s the price. I’ll pay it.
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