I’ve never been a writer.

I hated having to write papers in high school and college. Writing a term paper was probably the most difficult thing I ever had to do in school other than recite a memorized poem in front of the class. But now I long to write. I need to do it. I have stories to tell and they are knocking on my brain trying to get out.

I used to be able to tell a story through dance and would do so in front of hundreds of people. Yet I have always had a hard time piecing together stories and weaving them together using words, spoken or written. Or so I tell myself.

So I read other sites to get inspired. I read them and think, “I should just give up because I can’t write. I can’t write like THIS. The way she tells this story is so elegant and beautiful. I wish I could do that, but I never will be able to. I just don’t write like that.”

I compare myself to people I respect and admire. Some of you who are reading this fall into that category.

In my mind, these people write what they want, how they want, about what they want — seemingly with ease. They’re writing books and freelancing and doing amazing things. They convey their fears, frustrations, truths and feelings with such fluidity. I’m jealous of their ability to do that.

But this comparison only serves to makes me ask why I think my writing doesn’t come off that way to me. Why do I feel like this? Why do I care?

I wrote the other day about authenticity and how “what you see is what you get.”

I am me.

I don’t try to be someone I’m not. I don’t have the time or energy.

But it doesn’t stop me from comparing myself to others.