jessa.blog

I spent hours writing a career memoir as if thousands were waiting to read it. Inspired by this invisible audience, I spent hours recalling the turn of events that changed my life and made me who I am today. While the writing process helped me start conversations with family and friends, I stalled—afraid I wouldn’t write it well, or that the story wasn’t worth telling at all. And so it took me too many revisions and too many days to finally have the courage to finish and publish it.

The invisible audience turned out to be fewer than I imagined. The reach didn’t match the effort. But isn’t reaching even one person enough? And probably at least contribute to the long tail of online content that someone might eventually come looking for?

If I were to stop altogether writing stories, would it make me less of me?

I may not write something that becomes an overnight sensation, but I’d like to believe that the things I’ve written would immortalize me in some form. And probably, that’s way better than having nothing to be remembered by at all.

I could simply be writing to be remembered.