For the past few days or weeks (with my scatterbrain I’ve kind of lost track)…I’ve been writing a minimum of a thousand words per day or more.
Now, I’m like the greatest procrastinator in the history of mankind and in the past my writing has always been sporadic and inspiration-of-the-moment kind of thing.
But I love writing and I want to create art that can touch the lives of other people and bring my little slice of beauty to the world so…I write. I try to catch and pull down the vapor wisps of my imagination and condense them into words even if it takes forever to fill a page.
Being an extreme idealist, it’s no surprise that I romanticized writing before I embarked on my writing ‘regime’. I imagined myself as a starving artist going through great suffering for the sake of art as time went by. Ah! Glorious! Dying for a worthy cause has always seemed so romantic to me.
I imagined myself creating worlds at my fingertips, worlds that other people could get a peep into by opening the book and using it as a literary window.
I imagined myself publishing short stories that would be scattered like jewels amongst many publications and chipped away out of the earth of other stories by voracious readers.
I whirled away upon fantasies. Realize that until now I haven’t received any commendation, review or publication of a single of my writing, unless you count the praise of my previous English teachers, which doesn’t count. Yet I was floating on cloud nine, transported there by my stupid shimmery idealistic brain of mine.
And then I crashed.
Do you need to ask? I sat down and I wrote. And wrote. And edited. And read my edited work. And bawled and hated myself. It wasn’t just like ‘oh I have no ideas and I can’t seem to write well today and hate every single word I write’ sort of thing. It was more like, oh my god please kill me (not literally) my life has been a lie, I can’t write a single sentence properly let alone a short story I’m going to die without ever having published anything, with the golden seeds of my imaginings never having sprouted into anything tangible. Forget about a garden. I was trying to make a plant grow out of a itty bitty pot and failing.
I still feel this way. You can’t imagine the depth of my…cringing when I reread my work. These pieces of writing didn’t deserve to be even peed upon by my friend’s dog. I’m a naturally critical person. Perfectionism, high standards, yeah, you get my drift. Also slightly neurotic. I felt I was talentless, boring, lackluster and would never make it when it comes to the world of prose. I didn’t have it. I was hopeless. Kinda melodramatic, but yeah.
This post isn’t going to have some sugar-drenched inspirational message. I still suck at writing. I am an absolute amateur, that’s the damn truth. Granted, I’ve hardly practiced at the craft but that’s my own fault and due to my own lack of discipline, which is just another blockage in my pathway to my writing dreams (there I go again, dreaming. Must stop. Stop thinking and start doing). Maybe I’ll die without (sob) having ejected any art from my soul into the world. It’s the reality. And it makes me really sad. My heart literally clenches inside my chest with pain when I think about it.
But I’m going to keep writing, even if it is simply for my own pleasure and no-one else in the world reads it because doing something is better than doing nothing even if it means I will fail in reaching my goal.
And that’s all I have to comfort myself with for now. Hope everyone else is having a better week than me.