emotions, personal, writing

This is my about me . . .

Every time I think and try to write about how I could describe myself in a few short paragraphs I find that I disappoint myself. To date all have been insufficient. Talking about my past has nothing to do with my present as talking about my desired future for that matter. Nothing I write describes my current self accurately.

But I think that might have been what was the problem. Writing solely about me and negating my journey with writing and its related goals. My writing is its own identity and needs to be treated like one. What I’ve written below is my way of explaining myself.

You seem so insurmountable, even though I’ve already written and edited you 8 times already. But I fear that I am beginning to lose steam with you and it gives me great anxiety. I fear that because of these recent feelings I will never complete you and if I can’t finish my first book, can I ever finish another? The simple black letters on the plain white background look so formidable. On the surface the never ending lines of text appear to be just that. Text that can easily be looked over and dismissed. But these 26 repeatable letters are a culmination of ideas, talent and skills that could result in achievement, or ultimately be a complete waste of time, effort and mental capacity.

This story is mentally taxing and my strength is draining away, yet I only feel this way for only this one. All my other stories are unaffected. it’s like my brain is able to compartmentalise each idea like the files on my USB. This whole process of writing only you has made me realise a lot of things.

If I want fast results, then I have to have good productivity, which I can only achieve if sit in front of a computer for hours on end, for days on end. Do you know how exhausting that is? I can’t sit in front of a computer doing one thing thing for 8 hours a day 7 days a week. I mean it doesn’t even seem that difficult, but it screws with my mind. I blank out and nothing gets done for days until I’ve recuperated.I’ve never realised how hard it is to write until I actually began.

I want to write faster, better, and whatever would improve me. But I can’t. I’m limited by my own body and mind. And they won’t last forever. You’ve made me realise my own mortality and how it can affect what I want to do.

But I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was 13 and you have shown that to achieve this I just have to arrange my life so that I can fit you and all the others that follow. Since I began you I’ve only just begun to realise just how much effort you require. And that’s something I can assume will be the same for every single one of my other stories as well. Is the thought ‘is this what I’m in for the rest of my life‘ accurate?

All this effort I put into you might not even pay off. The saying that goes around is that I have to write and publish more books before I can even begin to recoup the costs (both seen and unseen) it takes to make just one of you. I sometimes curse myself for wanting to make you perfect. Am I putting too much effort into you? Or am I not putting in enough? I don’t want people to look down on you and therefore me.

But I have to deal with and accept all the feelings that come from this pursuit because I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t want to in a position that doesn’t allow me to express myself this way. That would be too depressing for me. So to ensure that doesn’t happen I have to arrange my life to fit you.

 

 

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