So ever since I can remember i’ve had creative tendencies, a mind that raced with visions of cows jumping over the moon, talking coffee cups, and magical explorations. I’ve had a way with words that seemed to capture my thoughts down so that I could share my visions, my thoughts, my insanities. And in looking back, reading over old words I thought to myself ‘I want nothing more in life then to have my words published… recognized by someone other then myself. I want to share my writing. Be a writer.
There was something else inside me, I told myself. A writer who made more appearances then the rest of myself. Always hidden from the world but clearly visible to me as I narrated my days in my head, adding dreams to my daily tasks. A writer, becoming one was always my dream.
But lately, with a whole string of broken attempts to get published and just have my words seen, I think to myself; why? WHy is it that I think I can become a writer? Surely with all these blog posts, creative Facebook status updates, and manuscripts passed to friends, I would have been discovered by now. If I were as good as I have thought I was, my writing such a gift, then why has no one taken any notice of it?
Because maybe, as much as it pains me to say, I am not cut out to be a writer. Maybe the fabric of my being was of a different cut, maybe I am destined to do nothing else but push papers, sell wedding gowns and other clothing to people, wait tables. Maybe the other writing of mine that will ever be noticed by anyone but myself is that it isn’t meant to be.
Maybe it is more of a hobby, one that should never fully form into an ambition because there is no possible way it will happen. I should invest my time in something more promising, something attainable. Something I am good at.
All these years I have just been seeing what I wanted to see in myself, a girl who is far too simple when she longs to be unique. One who is plain when she wants to be extraordinary, and one who can dream but will never be a writer.
So this is basically me telling the small amount of people that read my blog that I am not entirely sure how much longer I will be writing it. Because there is no writing in me… and I don’t think I can hold on to a dream without wings any longer.
I was just seeing what I wanted to see. Now my eyes are open and I can see that things need to change, and I need to search deeper inside myself to find something I can be proud of, something I can grow from.
Something that isn’t just a dream.