I am going to be honest. I’m losing my mind. It’s happened before. I’m quite aware of how the process works. There’s a certain futility in it. This futility manifests in everyday activities, in schoolwork. It comes as an overwhelming sense of “eh”. This “eh” sensation will lead you to say “Do I really need to get an A on that project when a B is just as okay?”. It will lead you to averageness. Soon, average will be “eh”. A D is still passing, isn’t it?

Writing is supposed to solve this program. It’s supposed to be there for me, whatever that means. My own words are supposed to embrace me. In the embryo of my words, I will be reborn anew. The dullness will fade and all will return to normal. But it doesn’t always work. I mean, when I’m writing, I feel that “Whoa, what I’m doing is fucking profound. It’s fucking meaningful, dude. I mean, whoa.” feeling. But that’s not enough. Yes, I feel like that when I write. Sometimes I have holy-shit-that’s-awesome sentences. And they’re good. But they’re not enough. It’s not enough to think that what I’m doing is profound or amazing as I’m writing it. It’s AFTER that it should still be profound. I need to be able to look at something and go “This is amazing, who wrote this?” and then realize, with a start, that these are my words. And yet, I know that I’ll never have that if only for the sheer familiarity. In my interview for Reed, Allea (my interviewer) said something that’s been said many times before in many different ways: fiction is merely a thinly veiled representation of a writer and her views. As a fiction writer I can say that this is true for me. I incorporate my thoughts, my abandoned hopes, my condemnations and my thoughts.

That’s what inspires me as a writer. Sometimes it’s the way I feel that fuels a character. Other times, it’s my values, my “what-ifs” that fuel it. It’s intensely fucking personal. I’m taking portions of my soul, portions of my mind out and putting them on paper with a carelessness that is terrifying. I fear editing. I fear the reader brandishing the sword that could finish my writing career. To write is to put yourself out into the world and hope that you are likable, intelligent and entertaining enough to be commercially, if not critically, successful. And that scares me. It scares me so much that I’ve abandoned my craft. Yes, what I wrote in middle school may embarrass me now. But it’s a shitload better than nothing at all, isn’t it? I trusted myself. I had fun with writing. It was something that I instilled with hope. I loved it and it showed. It’s funny how losing my mind ties to my writing. I lie to people and tell them that I write as a therapy when the truth is, I don’t write at all anymore. When I do, it’s a paragraph before the old fear wins and I cower in front of my laptop.

This isn’t an essay, I’m sure of that. It’s pure, unadulterated writing. Writing that is unedited and comes from the heart. It is “profound”, it is “selfish” and concentrated around the one subject I can always write about: myself. I can do this kind of writing. I could go on, blabbing to my audience. And I do. I do it all the time. I attempt to do free writes. I go on and on and on and talk about myself, the one subject that is easy to me. I’ve written pages-all in notepad, which is more “artistic”, less filtered. I make it into a diary entry. It’s even closer than that though. I put all those unsaid words into this little writings. I try to understand. I try to just write, to just let the truth pour out. And I try and I try and I try and I just want to fucking cry because it doesn’t mean anything at the end. I don’t let it. These are my personal writings. I keep them hidden.

Writing is not meant to be hidden. It is not meant to be a therapy. It’s meant to be an expression, meant to be interpreted and seen by others. It’s sharing. You share your words with others. Words that convey emotions like love and create a fog so lifelike that you can feel the gentle mist caress your arms. This is what a writer is meant to do. They are meant to not hide in the shadows but come out with wide, open arms and seduce you. They enchant you. They sing the words and the children come running after them. Before you know it, you’re in their world. You understand. That’s what a good writer can do. A shit writer will have you bored. You will see immediately that what you are reading is merely a book. The words have no life of their own. To put it better, a writer is a magician. A good writer can dazzle you with their tricks but a bad writer will allow you to see the trick behind the magic. They don’t dazzle. There’s nothing in their craft that enthuses you. I don’t know if I’m a good writer or not, but I aim to be a good one. I want to share my writing with others. I want to enchant them, seduce them.

I told you before that this was not an essay. I think I’ve discovered what it can be called. It is a resolution. I will write. I will not hide my things in the shadows any longer. Words deserve to be read. They deserve to be said. I will share my words and I’ll be damned if anyone tries to stop me.



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