I would sit and stare at the blank page, my cursor blinking at me with no end.
Will it be good? Who’s going to read it? Why would they care?
These thoughts stopped me every time. I’d open my laptop with the best intentions, crack my knuckles, and then… nothing. The white screen always won, and I’d close the tab, promising myself I’d try again tomorrow.
Tomorrow never came.
I didn’t have a writing problem. I had a fear problem.
The Random Recommendation That Changed Everything
It wasn’t until I saw a friend I follow on X talk about a course she’d bought on sale. She was so excited, so naturally it peaked my interest lol.
I was curious. The course was about writing online.
I’d never thought something like that existed. Courses for writing online? I thought you upload your essays and papers and that’s it, never something for socials. I’d never even heard of the creator, but something about my friend’s excitement made me pay attention.
She wasn’t someone who got excited about random things. So when she posted about this course, I found myself clicking the link.
I blindly signed up because I trusted her judgment more than my own doubts. And let’s be honest here… I’m a sucker for deals lol.
The Permission I Didn’t Know I Needed
That course taught me something I wish I knew years ago: I don’t have to make every post a masterpiece.
The instructor, Kieran Drew, talked about “small bets,” little posts that test ideas without the pressure of being perfect. He shared examples of successful writers who built audiences by sharing incomplete thoughts, daily observations, and works-in-progress ll on X (twitter)!
I’d been treating every potential post like it needed to be my magnum opus. Meanwhile, the writers I actually enjoyed reading were sharing messy, human moments.
Some of the best lessons are in the small moments, the ones I used to think were “too boring” to share. That conversation with a coworker that sparked an insight. The mistake I made on a project and what it taught me. The book passage that made me stop and think.
The way you tell a story is often more important than the story itself.
What I Learned About My Real Enemy
As it turns out, it’s not that I was “scared” or ”intimidated” by the blank screen, it was that my expectations were wrong, which turned into overwhelm.
I’d been sitting down to write thinking that I have to say something profound, original, and polished. No wonder my cursor just blinked at me, I was expecting to write Pulitzer Prize pieces every time I wrote.
When I let myself write like I talk (simple, human, and curious), ideas started flowing.
That post about struggling with creative direction? I wrote it like I was texting a friend who asked how work was going.
The piece about learning to take feedback? I pretended I was explaining it to someone over coffee.
What I once called writer’s block was really just me trying too hard to impress people who probably weren’t even paying attention.
Starting Doesn’t Require Perfection
Sometimes all you need to start is permission.
For me, that came from a friend’s recommendation and a course that gave me a framework for thinking differently about online writing. But permission can come from anywhere a conversation, a book, a single sentence that shifts your perspective.
The course not only taught me how to write, it also taught me to begin.
It showed me that the gap between having ideas and sharing them isn’t talent it’s courage. And courage, unlike talent, is something you can practice.
So if you’re staring at your own blank page, wondering if your thoughts are worth sharing, here’s what I wish someone had told me sooner:
Start small. Share the ordinary moments that taught you something. Write like you’re talking to a friend. Let yourself be incomplete.
The cursor will stop blinking at you when you stop trying to be perfect.
What’s keeping you from hitting publish? Sometimes the thing that feels too small to share is exactly what someone else needs to hear.
