Debut of the Beginning of Bad Titles

I'm not a good writer. I don't have a hook or a clever way to pull you in. As I look at your stories and beautiful strings of words, I am dumbfounded. What the hell do I have to share that is even remotely worthy of your time?

For what it's worth, here it is: me. Not all of me, but not just the shiny, pretty side, either.

I have a desire to give you little chunks of me, similar to chunks of my flesh, but more sacred. That might not seem like a great revelation for you, but for me, in particular, it is.

The thing is that I make myself mad with worry over how you'll perceive me. You can't NOT like me. Because if you or someone else doesn't like this piece, I'll take it personally and let it affect my very core.

I do ask myself why I partake in my potential misery. I think that this is the reason: I know that I'm part of the community. In this community, while I might be terrible, there are others like me. Just as there are 100 writers better than myself, there must be 1,000 worse (or so I force myself to believe).

Whether I'm awesome or loathesome to you, I can't ignore the fact that you put yourself out there like me; and being the writer that you are, you're equally sensitive to the scrutiny of your work. So, I expose myself because I think that if you have the courage, so must I.