I write. I write, write, write. I write short stories, articles*, blog posts (shocker!), reviews and (trying but *not yet* succeeding) a novel.
(Or two, three, four–) The thing is: it’s hard. It’s incredibly difficult to find the words that you are searching for. Deep inside, you have a feeling or an image in your head and you want to express that in the most real way, describe it truly and wholeheartedly, realistically and while not losing the escence of the things attached to that. It’s weird. What’s also weird is the fact that I said „you“ instead of „me“ or „I“ – I’m literally applying my struggles with words onto other people. Is that healthy or unhealthy or just neutral behaviour? Who knows – not me.
Moving on; writing is important to me. What words can do, make others feel, make me feel, is important to me. I’m amazed by the power that language has over me. Words can break me, words can make me, words are influencing me. Words are doing things so greatly and grandly to me that I’m shocked at how they have done that. Words impact me. And I want to impact, too. I want to impress, and inspire, and make others feel. I want to write, I want others to love my words as I have loved others. Tell me your secrets, oh mighty words. No, seriously. Why aren’t you answering? If the wisdom of great writing were to be a person, I would infinity text them all day long.
When I started writing (creative writing class in school) it was just something I was forced to do to get a good grade. Though, I liked it, liked creating situations, forming sentences to have them express what I wanted the reader to understand/think about/feel – it wasn’t until after school that I found the writer community, the booktube/bookstagram community and learned first hand that writers are just people, too
(I mean, I obviously knew that before; it’s not like they’re aliens but–) and realized that being an author was never something I had considered before just because I thought of it as something not obtainable for me. And that shocked me. Suddenly the thought was there. The possibility was there. I knew I could at least try – I had no excuse anymore. So I started. Slowly, very slowly. Like a baby snail making her way across the streets – now that I think about that; exactly like a baby snail making her way across the road – always one second away from being killed by a car driving by. (That’s a little harsh and an incredibly sad thought to think about, poor hypothetical baby snail.) You get the point. It’s scary.
I started as easy peasy as I could think of: writing down what I had done through the day (like a diary), then I wrote little sections of scenes that I had stuck in my mind. After that, ideas, characters, relationships that I felt inspired to write about. And now, short stories. Every time I get inspired, I write a story. Some are pretty damn bad, some are solid, some have great moments. A few are good if I say so myself. But I’m not yet ready to write my novel. I’m not ready but I’m going to be; I have a feeling that I’m going to be. And that’s enough for me right now.