Here I am battling with insomnia, stressed over the book I’m working on right now, struggling with self-doubt. Am I good enough? What makes me an expert in writing? I’m rubbish. I can’t write. I can’t even speak. I should give up.
Then it hits me, again. I think it was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said that attitude is more important that aptitude when it comes to writing. So here it is:
My writing skills are rubbish! Yet my stories are my stories; unique and great! My arrogantly naive style and bipolar rants set questions without answers and answers without further questions. I’m pathetic. I’m the best! Fuck this! This is who I am and you will hear my voice and read my words. If not, it’s your loss. Or is it?
Battling with myself I find myself again. This sounded funny, yet eerily psychotic. Maybe I am a psycho, like they always told me I was. Maybe this rapid emotional ambivalence can only be explained by a common neurological disorder, a mental ailment which is both my crippling pain as well as my source of divine inspiration. Should I use my weakness to achieve the greatness I’ve always dreamed of or should I collapse under its weight? And which weight? The weakness’s weight or rather, the dream’s?
But what do I know? I’m just a psycho who can’t sleep and can’t write, and who dreams big, standing in the dark typing on a broken smartphone.
I’m not a writer, but I shall keep writing.