YOUR HOBBY IS WORTH A MILLION DOLLARS; MONETIZE IT!
I was one of those kids in primary school who…
Before I started this piece, which I have no idea how it would end, I had to read stuff written by others.
I was hoping you wouldn’t get the wrong ideas; I’m an excellent writer. I can cook up an excellent fictional story in a split second. I have a sound and vast imagination. If you mention a word, I can tell you a fascinating story, but somehow, I don’t think I write that well.
On Instagram, sometimes I tell stories. I get comments about how interesting these stories are. Recently, someone said my writing is like wine, and it keeps getting better with time. You’d imagine my first response to this to be a head swell. Maybe, raised shoulders or a smirk of pride. Instead, my head paid attention to her choice of words. How could she think up such a beautiful comparison? “Wine” and “writing”, with an ending that made them seem so good. In my opinion, it takes a genius writer level to do such, yet, she doesn’t identify as a writer.
I make the best excuses. Sometimes I blame everyone’s favourite victim, impostor syndrome. I talk endlessly about how I don’t think I’m good enough. I also sing of how I can never be the writer I want to be, just as I do now.
When I’m tired of blaming impostor syndrome, I switch to everyone’s other favourite victim, fear. I can write ten personal essays on how afraid I am to put words down. These words have spaces in my brain. If there were a journal in my brain, it would be flooded with these words as they beautifully make up sentences.
Before this, I was going to write something about being the reincarnation of my great grandmother. I already started another piece on my healing heart. I have the right words to talk about my first pitch to a magazine and how I feel about other writers. But I never get these words out because maybe they won’t be as beautiful as I want.
So, maybe if I put this out, it will be a good base. A way to start writing again until I come up with something I finally consider beautiful.
Or maybe, I’d always write, but I’d never make a beautiful writer.