Writing is not, by any means, easy. The act itself can be accomplished simply by picking up a pen or pencil and paper, or booting up a word processor. Whatever comes to mind, and is recorded, is considered to have been written. Quality aside, context disregarded, writing can be simply stringing letters into words.
Striving for anything more, the expectations, the anxiety over quality, it can often times be debilitating.
I’ve got so much time but I can’t find the words to put down while filling that time. There’s so many words lurking, I can tell, within my mind. Names, places, images, events, they pass through my imagination like ghosts through a wall. Seemingly without limit, they continually pass by.
Some ideas linger. They shake my mind, they can sometimes possess me. My fingers vibrate, yearning for the touch of the key, or the embrace of a pencil.
Like trying carry water in my hands, the ideas just slip between my fingers until all that is left is the moisture in the creases of my palms. I can lap at it, I can get a taste, but once that taste is done, I’m on to the next thing. I don’t savor the flavor. I don’t stop to get a true image of what I’ve experienced, what I’ve created, or what I’ve written. In the end, the flavor is lost and so has the interest.
How do I put the fear behind me? How do I find the strength to stay and write, to push through the fear, the doubt, the fog of war. How do I convince myself I’m good enough, when I can’t give others the opportunity to do so as well.
I know I can do it. There’s a feeling inside me, there’s a beast that lurks within my breast, it infects me with the knowledge that I can do it. It’s a passion that, only in rare cases, can be tapped in to. Like the magicians of the stories in my mind, I must learn to channel that passion, shape it with my imagination, and record it to completion through dedication.
It wasn’t until I decided to become a writer, that I’ve encountered issues I never thought I would. I find comfort in my respect for writing. I’m determined to see this to completion even if it means I must struggle. The only failure, is the failure to try. Even if I don’t ever finish a novel, or get published, I’ll always have the experience.
