This is my first post here. To be honest, I don't even know why I'm here, or what I'm doing, or what I'm supposed to do. This is me, being me, as raw as I can be. Do you ever feel like you can't truly be you, ever? I mean, in this world of over-saturation of media, both produced by companies and individuals. With YouTube, and Twitter, and Blogs, and Insta, and a tone of other things... too many, if you ask me. How are we meant to keep up with that? We possibly can't. Right?
I have almost all of these, and the pressure for them to take off, or have a certain number of followings, blah de blah can suck any creativity out of a person. I opened a blog at the behest of a friend, I wrote novels at the behest of myself, I opened up a YouTube channel to give platform to the tiny films I make. A drop in the gigantic ocean if anything. I joined Twitter, for I as an author should have a platform. For a year and a half, I didn't even know how Twitter worked! Yikes. Then there's the writing platforms. Don't get me started on those.
I'm so tired. I'm so tired I could sit here for hours with nothing but a blank wall to entertain me and I'll be perfectly fine. You know what I mean? Switch off. Take a moment to just breath. No looming deadlines, no adult responsibilities, no bills, entry fees, food to cook, kitchen to clean. Nothing! Just give us a moment to find our own reflection. I mean, every time I look at my reflection in the mirror, it's while I'm brushing my teeth, and even in those few minutes, I'll find another flaw, another blemish, another whatever. It's exhausting.
So what am I doing here? It beats me. I want to vent, I want to say all those things I cannot say, or confess to if I'm me. My life is boring. To the point that I sometimes look around and wonder, is this it? Is this all I'm going to achieve in life. I'm in my 30s and I'm still a struggling artist. Sometimes I barely think I've ever noticed. I float through life some days manic, some days, I'm ready to throw that towel in and say I give up.
I accidentally fell into writing when I was a pre-teen, and some days, I wish, I wish so hard that I'd never discovered the joy of imaginary worlds. I wish I could simply push that thought of wanting to become a writer out of my mind and settle into the job I'm trained for. Then there are those days I simply cannot breathe as the idea of never succeeding or writing just freezes my soul.
I attempted to write my first novel as a 12 year old. Who does that? Perhaps someone who's grown up reading novels all her life and fancies herself a storyteller. Me? I was an immigrant living in an English speaking country, barely making heads-or-tails of the language, and how dare I think I had what it takes to do this thing. I got through 30+ pages if I can remember well. 30+ of nada. That's how bad it was. And you know what's worse? I had the gall to ask my homeroom teacher if she could help me edit it, as if it was some glorious story that needed to be told. It wasn't. It was utter crap! How do I know? Well, by the time I got to 30 something pages, even I could tell it was terrible. Who was I kidding, thinking I could master a language I could barely speak in?
Yet, almost two decades on, here I am. I have two self-published novels (which means squat even if I spent hours of my life writing them), and I have written and made several short films, none of it has probably ever reached the masses. And I haven't a clue what I'm doing wrong, or what I'm doing right. I have no idea if my voice even has something to say. I wish there was a way to see into the future, you know? Just to know if I'm even on the right path. I guess this is what being human is. We walk blindly, holding the hand of a tempest we don't know if we should trust entirely. Some spend their whole life chasing that dream. Some give up at various stages. I am yet to see which of these are me. The quitter, or the bull.
I hope to regal you with my triumphs and my failures as an 'almost' writer, but this is me, saying hello to you, in the weirdest possible way. Howdy, fellow almost writer, or writers, or creators of art, any form. I understand your pain, your frustration, all your fears and all your vulnerability.