I never thought I’d ever write a blog.
It’s strange, really. Both of my parents are literature teachers. Back in school, my literature grades were always among the highest in class. You’d think writing would come naturally to me. But literature, to me, was never about moral lectures from adults or those formulaic essays our teachers basically spoon-fed us. It was something far more personal, something raw and beautiful, like the classic novels I read before I even understood what right and wrong really meant.
Whenever I scroll through my mom’s Facebook feed, I often see very “literary” posts by other teachers: poems, reflective pieces, short stories, and the like. That got me wondering: “Why do so many people write and post so comfortably, while mom never does?” She explained, “Most of the people posting are science teachers. But for many literature teachers, they feel like their own writing is too small, too trivial compared to the great works they’ve spent their entire careers studying.”
That’s her perspective. It may not be entirely true, but I do think there’s a hint of truth in it.
I’ve been a devoted reader since I was little. I grew up with the dusty bookshelves in my mom’s room, snuck cringey teen-fictions under the covers during what I now call my golden age of rebellion, and devoured hundreds of chapters of wuxia and fantasy novels. There’s hardly a genre I haven’t tasted. These days, I still try to maintain the habit of reading books. From time to time, I scroll through Substack to see if any interesting blogs catch my eye. I also read scholarly literature nearly every day for my research work (though that’s more of a chore than a joy). 
I read. I analyze. I interpret. And I’d like to think I have a pretty solid eye for evaluating whether a piece of writing works or not. But aside from professional writing, I rarely write for myself. Part of it is because I don’t feel like what I write will be “good enough”. Part of it is because I’ve grown so used to being the reader that switching roles, exposing my own thoughts and emotions in words, feels intimate and raw in a way I may not always be ready to face.
Another reason why I hesitate to write is the way my brain works. I don’t mind spending hours crafting and polishing an academic essay because in that case, the structure and logic (what I call the skeleton) are already pre-designed. All I need to do is flesh it out: select ideas, choose the right words, and arrange everything so it flows.
Creative writing, though, is a whole different story. Literature is meant to be felt, to be pondered, to be lived through, not boxed into a number that tells you how good or bad it is. There’s no ready-made grading criteria or scoring rubric. There’s no formula to follow. And I’m someone who needs structure. Order. Clarity. Brevity.
Order versus spontaneity. Clarity versus ambiguity. Brevity versus depth.
And control versus vulnerability.
I don’t like rambling. I don’t like sitting around all day brooding over a problem that leads nowhere. I dive straight in. If something needs resolving, I’ll make a SWOT analysis, weigh the pros and cons, and move on. But writing creatively isn’t a “problem” to solve. It’s a pleasure to be felt. And to enjoy that pleasure fully, you need boundless imagination. You need to lead with your heart, not your head. I’m someone with a lot of thoughts (obviously), but I’m also very practical. Asking me to write those thoughts down—not to solve them, but to reflect on them, to dream on them, and to let people see through them—that’s hard.
All of the above are just reasons why writing is hard for me. They’re not reasons why I’ll never write. There are still two weeks left before the new semester starts, so I’m going to try and write as much as I can before the flood of deadlines from work and classes buries me completely...
Hôm nay tôi nghĩ