Writing

I hate the constant rushing of lying voices in my head. They tell me over and over and over again, that I’m not this. I’m not really a writer. Who am I kidding? I am no writer.

Every lying voice in my head screams at me, taunting me. Laughing.

How do I feel about writing? I’ll tell you. I hate it. I love it. The thought of it keeps me up at night. I wish I was better. I want to be better. Comparison kills my work.

The futile strive for perfection. I feel like I’m hauling a plow across a field, making rows and rows for seeds to grow.

And then, I turn around, and I see myself going back, before anything has had a chance to be planted, and covering up the rows.

I think there are TOO MANY words already. I doubt my ability to make myself be heard. I doubt that I will gain anything positive. I doubt that ANYONE will gain anything positive from my writing. I doubt myself. I doubt my actual writing ability.

I compare myself to others.

I try to write a final draft every first time, struggling against my own humanness

I live and die by word counts.

By chopping and cutting. By adding and expanding.

I mold and meld my pieces but even after I share them, I find things I want to change.

I go back and read what I wrote a year ago and I cringe. I want to take it down, delete it from history, erase it from your memory.

I want to make something earth-shattering, to create an amazing fantastical world like Narnia, or Redwall; but there’s nothing in my head, and I wonder if maybe there never will be.

I worry that there’s nothing in my head. My head feels like a vast empty cave, and there are plenty of nothings rolling around.

But maybe there are a few somethings.

I have to still hope. I have to hang on.

Because somewhere in the cave, in all the squishy, important parts of my brain, there has to be something. Something I can share.

Something with MEANING.

I want to leave something to the world like Michelangelo or Rembrandt, or Emily Dickinson, or Edgar Allen Poe, or Victor Hugo.

I want to leave a mark.

Not just an empty cavern. I want to be remembered. I want it to be noticed that I’m gone.

And for me, that thing I leave, is my writing

(I WANT TO STOP BEING OBSESSED WITH WORD COUNTS.)

I want to be REMEMBERED!

Maybe I obsess about it at times, and maybe my worry about leaving a mark gets in the way of my actually LEAVING A MARK. I should work on that.

Writing is birthing something unique and special and monumental. Writing creates life. It creates life and death.

Writing is agony.

(Author’s note, this was created after reading the following writing prompt by Jeff Goins: “What do you love about the craft? What do you hate? Share your passion, your agony, your love for writing.”)

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