I love to write. Truly, I do. But I’ve never considered myself particularly good at it. I think I’m a decent storyteller—especially when it comes to the funny, ridiculous, “you won’t believe what I just did” type of stories—but getting those tales out of my head and onto paper has never been my strong suit.

When I write, it’s very much how I speak: a rambling stream of consciousness, full of tangents and enthusiasm. (As I’m sure you’ve already noticed.)

My blog, My Life-Food-Wine, is my little corner of joy. It’s where I invite people to “join me on my journey as I take one big gulp out of life, one small sip at a time.” I write about everything from restaurant adventures and recipes to life’s little moments and, more recently, wine. There’s a lot about single life, dinners with friends, solo cooking escapades, and whatever else pops into my head. It makes me happy—and I hope it makes you happy too.

Lately, though, I’ve found myself in a bit of a funk. I still love doing this, and I know it’s something I want to keep pursuing. But I’ve started to wonder: am I becoming boring? Or—gulp—am I just becoming self-conscious now that more people are reading? I’ve caught myself second-guessing my word choices, writing and rewriting lines because I don’t want to say “great” or “delicious” for the hundredth time. I want to describe a tuna tartare so well you can practically taste it—without ever calling it “yummy.”

So, I did a thing. I enrolled in a 12-week Food Writing course through the Gotham Writers Workshop and The New York Times. It starts today, it’s online, and I am… already intimidated.

I’ve been excited about this class for months—annoying the good folks at Gotham with emails asking to get a head start. But this morning, I made the mistake of reading some of my classmates’ bios. Let’s just say, there are a lot of published authors, people with degrees out the wazoo, and folks who seem very legit. Meanwhile, I’m over here, second-guessing what the first assignment even means (I had to phone a friend or two to be sure I was on the right track).

Still, despite the nerves and insecurities, I know this is the right step. I want to get better. I want to tell stories that sing—whether they’re about a flaky pastry, a bad date, or a bottle of wine that changed my night. And this class is a brave, slightly terrifying, but exciting way to start.

Wish me luck.

Sincerely,
Ms. Insecurity (a.k.a. hopeful future food writer)

Tracey