Today I took it upon myself to write. I mean really, write. I had a copy of Stephen King's "On writing", Brenda Ueland's "So you want to write", my laptop, my tablet, my phone.
And I wrote a chapter. It was alright. Nothing amazing. But I was guilted into it by King's book who made me feel like if I wanted to write, I absolutely had to. Talking and thinking about writing only serves to prolong the frustration of not actually doing the deed, and I'm okay with that I guess.
But damn, after Jennifer blew off the pages I submitted to her over email a few days ago, I felt I really had to prove to myself that I could write something worthy of praise. Anything, and this sensation of wanting to prove her wrong carried over in my prose, which became a little more descriptive and flowery than usual.
Well, I think I made a dent but I don't think I've yet demolished the wall.
Looking over my blog last night after I posted, I couldn't help but see the same old me whining about the same old things for years on end. "I want to write. I want to love." and all the spiritual/religious talk of which I am still in fascination with to this day.
When will it ever end? When will my breakthrough happen?
I wrestled with the possibility earlier today thinking that I'm just not fit to be a writer. Even if I wrote a book, and I have, there is no guarantee of it being any good. And as I looked over what I had written in the past, I couldn't help but feel embarrassed about how inadequate it all seemed to me. Where was my centerpiece? My one chapter to show off to people? And I realized I didn't have this chapter, and that I've only myself to blame.
That is true. Only myself. If I want something badly enough, I need to push at it. I need to grit my teeth and buckle down and settle into the habit of pursuing a goal as doggedly as I can, no matter what is thrown at me. But I still get these doubts in my head. That I'm not any good. That it's a waste of time trying to pursue a career in this field and that my well of ideas is drying up.
I don't know what to think anymore. For so long I have held onto this dream of mine and I can't let it go, but it feels like I need to. I need to either surrender myself completely to what it is I want to do, or to give up on it altogether.
Writing this blog post, a small inner-voice squeaks out at me to keep going. To keep pushing on, but I can't help but feel like I'm an idiot for having once believed what I did. That I could make something out of myself, on my own steam and I find as the years pass, that the possibility of that happening is growing slimmer with each day.
A writer has to write. A football player has to play football. A musician needs to be playing his instrument, so why aren't I? Why is the goal more appealing to me to think about than the effort to get there? I mean I have to work at it. There is no other option, and a part of me feels like I've already gone over this before many times in my head and I realize that I am numbed to these self-criticisms. I am not spurred to write nearly as much as I would like and...
God damn it. Why bother? Why keep trying?
Those who keep trying, never fail. That's why.
I really want to believe that. I really need to believe that. If I can't write, if I have no talent to offer the world whatsoever, no meaningful commentary to share, then I am worthless. I have nothing. I may as well accept my place in line along with the mediocrity of the rest of us who work jobs that we dislike and indulge in trivialities, like getting drunk, so that we can forget about the dreams we have given up on.
I can't be that guy. But the temptation is still there. To surrender myself to fate and do only what comes effortlessly for me.
Thinking and dreaming.
Not writing.
Not anything else worth being practiced upon.
I am a dreamer caught in a nightmare of my own making.
And I hate it.
