Struggles as a writer
It’s not really having nothing to say—it’s not finding the right words to say them with. It’s getting angry at the words I do have that aren’t good enough for me. It’s recklessly using the words at my disposal, caring not about how abruptly and despairingly I pick them up, pocket them, and throw them away as quickly as I discovered them.
It’s wanting the contents of the dictionary to just write for me. To put themselves together, to create art, to create something to be proud of. It’s not feeling proud.
Writing is an art that doesn’t have much tangible payoff. My articles aren’t strewn about my room like paintings or murals, my sentences aren’t scribbled on corners of homework like little doodles, my fragments don’t line the walls of an art museum. When I write—when I create something—the only thing that shows for it is another title on my staff profile page.
Sometimes, it’s hard to feel motivated when my art form lacks physical substance. It’s hard to feel inspired if I’m not surrounded by my greatest works. It’s hard to find the beauty of words, and writing, if I can’t literally see them. And it’s hard—so, so, hard—to feel pride in any of my written words because there’s nothing to physically show the years and years and years of writing, writing, writing.
Maybe if I could see my words, really, truly see them—maybe I could feel proud.
I think many people on our staff would agree with me when I say that writing is tied intrinsically to emotion. And, I suppose, I’ve had my fair share of different moods and emotions throughout my four years on The Central Trend.
Throughout my four years, I have written hundreds of stories, during hundreds of different moods, and in so many different stages of my life.
How do I have anything left to say? How do I have any words left?
Sometimes, I think I don’t; I don’t have any words left.
Sometimes, I stare at a blinking cursor for hours — mind completely blank.
But, somehow, a word always slips out, and then another and another. They aren’t always the most coherent words. But, they are words nonetheless. Even if they come as a trickle and not a flowing stream, they are still coming — I just have to fight a little harder to find them.
I like being the best. I always want to be the hardest worker, the most dedicated worker, the most perseverant worker. All my life, I’ve been told that success doesn’t come to those who ask for it; it comes to those who demand it, those who work for it. Unfortunately, that doesn’t apply to writing.
Writing is an art, a creativity. Your words belong to you, uniquely. While, yes, you can always work to get better, it is more about self-expression. These two things battle in my mind every time I sit down to write. Who do I want to be as a writer? What is “my thing?”
I see all the incredible things that others write and think, “yes, I should write like this; I should try this style. This is how I can become better.” The only problem is that’s not “me.” I constantly force myself to remember that I am not anybody other than myself— my style isn’t anything other than my own.
Though it is always beneficial and healthy to explore and experiment with other styles, there is no use comparing my work to someone else’s. No style is inherently better than another— it’s just self-expression.