Get this, I’ve been writing (on a weekly, if not daily basis) for 11 years now. And 11 years just happens to be half my life. Obviously, I’ve improved a lot since then, but I have to say I am still entirely unhappy with my usage of the English language. I don’t know if this happens to other people, but I have read so much of myself, that I just can’t stand it. Even reading some of my best sentences, or paragraphs is nightmarish horrible.
I just think:
“Oh, she’s using that word again, why?”
“Couldn’t she change her main characters name, that’s what all her male leads are called.”
“Really, she’s trying to write fantasy again, pathetic, she should stick to what she’s good at, self-deprecating diary entries.”
I drive myself crazy with this, because even when I know something is good, it doesn’t satisfy me. For a long time I ignored it, or I worked really hard to get past it. I said things like: “I’m just too critical. I’m just too hard on myself.” But right now, I’m just so tired. I’m tried of English, I am tired of writing, and most of all I am exhausted of reading my own writing. That’s is literally the most horrible thing I could ever force myself to do.
I can’t describe how painful it is to put absolutely all my creative energy and time into something and feel so unhappy with the results. I know that I am very good story teller, I know that, but I’m shit writer and I truthfully don’t know how to fix it. I read books, I read blogs, I try to change, but I’m never happy with the results. And that’s what ultimately makes me want to have the capacity to quit writing. Nothing makes me more unhappy. Nothing makes me feel worse about myself. I won’t lie, there are moments when I am proud, and there are moment when I feel good, but they don’t seem to lead anywhere.
When I was younger I really used to believe that practice made perfect. I used to think every story, every character, every word was bringing closer to being the writer I wanted to be. But now I feel that is less true than ever before. I feel like every year I become more miserable. Every year I feel more like quitting. What is this? And why did I get myself into it?
You know what the worst part is? That I never feel I express what I want to. Even looking back at this post infuriates me. I am angrier than this, I am sadder than this. All I want to do is rip my keyboard out of my laptop and erase my hard-drive. Of course I won’t, of course I’ll keep trying like I always have. But these days, I am more certain than ever before that I am headed nowhere with this.
Every time I type I feel like I’m stuck on a loop of monday morning.