Insecurities follow us everywhere in life. They can range from small obstacles you overcome everyday to a nightmare that haunts you your whole life. It often happens that we get insecure about the things we like to do most because of various reasons. In this case, I am often insecure about my writing. So I wrote about how insecure I am about my writing and it really helped. If you ever feel like you’re not good enough, convince yourself that you are, or get it out there somehow! Write about it!
Here’s my text about my writing insecurity:
Confession of a Writer
I am not a writer. I am not like them. I pretend to be a part of them, a part of the future community of authors, but I am not- in the past three years I haven’t even written twenty stories. I know a guy who has already written two books and he is only two years older than me. The only complex plot I have written is a small crime fiction, and I didn’t use characters of my own creation. When I do, though, they are results of my current mood, not elaborate beings.
Writing does not come easy to me. I pretend to own all the pretty words, to illuminate the world in a halo of its own good or to drown it in its oceans of evil. But at the end of the day, I sit in front of my laptop and the page stays blank. The weight on my chest seems to block the oxygen to flow to my brain and make it unable to work, unable to send the right commands to get my fingers to move. And why should they? What are my stories ever going to do? They’re not for reading aloud. The only purpose they have is that I can give them to my teacher who somehow likes them. Pathetic, no? Oh, and to visit camps that prove how uncommitted I am to my work. I don’t know all the stylistic devices and they don’t flow from my fingers like they do from a friend of mine who will surely be a praised author in two years. Did I mention that she also inhales literature as if they were picture-books? I can’t do that. Language itself doesn’t interest me that much. It’s how it’s used that makes it interesting, which words are chosen to describe this landscape, this thought, this feeling. The books in my shelf are fantasy books, sometimes historical novels. I want to know how the world works; I read about different communities, different systems of magic, different ethic rules, different ways of ruling and dealing with diseases of power, different views of gods and monsters, of good and bad. Out of those books I pick the truth, or I try to. Because sometimes I find truth in the author’s words simply because he believes them. Or maybe it’s because I believe them too.
But by all means, I am not a writer. I don’t have enough words to write even a 100-page book, I am not fluent in the language I use most, but when I need the other one, the one I think in, the words fly from my memory as if they have just decided that my brain is not suited for them to live in. I am terrible at conversation and talking in general. It’s better to let other people win the competitions. Words don’t come easy to me.
But when they come, they’re about me. Me and my feelings. Me and my worries. Me and my dreams. In reality, everything I write is self-centred, trying to find excuses and explanations. When I invent characters, my traits are in them. This way I can use them more often. But when I try to put my stories together into a greater plot, then my brain is empty, the oxygen gone, the words used up.
No, writing, that’s for other people but surely not for me.
I hope this will help you overcoming your writing insecurities, or getting one step closer to.
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