I don’t know what to write. I want to write – I always want to write. What is it about putting words on paper that I love so deeply? What is it, exactly? Is it the baring of my soul in the form of a story or just an essay? Is it the representation of life, as it could be and as it is? Is it the fact that I can bring beauty, or truth, through the writing?
Maybe it’s all those things. Maybe it’s none of them. Maybe I’m talented; maybe I’m not. I’m not sure, myself. I’d like to think I have a little gift, but then again, I’d also love to be a great, and I don’t know that that is in the cards for me, as a writer. I guess it’s as much in the cards for me as anything else I’m good at doing. I’m good at a lot of things, but because I’ve had natural ability, I haven’t worked hard on anything, really, in my life. I didn’t work hard at singing, or piano, or science, or math, or drawing. I have always skated on by on my natural affinity for those things, and I know I can do so no longer if I want to go any further.
I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I’ve realized that I can’t just skate by on talent and bullsh*t anymore. I could, but I probably wouldn’t go very far, and I’d certainly like to. I’ve also gotten to a point where I am very open to and interested in constructive criticism and good feedback, and the current tendency to tell me simply that something is “good” is not doing it for me. I know I’ll never be great if I don’t practice, which I do, constantly; but, I also know I’ll never be great without someone to shake up my world and my art with a fresh perspective, or even just to tweak it to make it something more interesting, more beautiful, more meaningful, more true – any or all of the above.
I don’t know what to write. But something is in me. There is a story – or stories – to be told. I have to finish the ones I’ve started, though. Even if they’re never published, even if they’re absolute trash, at least I’ll have finished them. At least I’ll have practiced.