Here’s the thing, I've found myself in a muddled writing hole as of late. Feelings of inadequacies fester, and lead to my breaking point of saying to myself that I’ll never write again. But all writers at one point or another feel that way you say, it’s just part of the process. Sure, I’ll agree with you, but we all have our reasons, our stories, and what leads us down Breaking Point Road, whether published or not. So today I’ll share mine.
Growing up I was constantly being tested. For what you ask? Well, as embarrassing as it is to say, my brain. The counselors over seeing my brain, and behavioral issues would often lift up little cards and ask me to figure them out, or ponder other activates or questions with me.
Teachers were beyond annoyed having me in their classes because I was the “disruptive one”, the nuisance. My grades were horrendous, and I always found myself on Friday Free Days in detention, away from games, other kids, and well, fun. But the reason I was such a nuisance was because I struggled, deeply. Nearly every assignment handed to me was a struggle. When it came to words, all I saw were scrambled bits of letters that might as well belong in a soup bowl. Math, well, let’s just say I’m still trying to figure that puzzle out, and art, it was my escape.
Laughter was my escape.
Escape. We all find ways, even when we’re young to run away from our problems, even if we do it unknowingly.
By the time I was in High school, I hadn't even read a book from cover to cover. I hated to read because I couldn't comprehend what all those words were doing all at once. I could barely understand what a metaphor was, and how some blasted idiot could turn it into a story.
Again, I struggled.
But yet, even from a young age, I’d made my brother books of cats and frogs, and in my despair, I tried to write, and it felt like putting paint onto paper. I created. Escaped. And it was glorious.
Story constantly knocked at my heart. It was as if an alien came down from space and planted this horrendous piece of technology inside of me that forced me to write. At first it wasn't horrendous; when I kept it all to myself, the worlds I lived in were wonderful, until I showed it to the real world.
When those first bits of criticism (people actually asking me not to read anymore) came in, I was crushed. Those moments of my childhood flooded my heart. I was stupid all over again, a real ninny, who might as well seclude herself to the only people who desired to be around her, her family. But I put on my thick skin, told those voices to go away, and read. I started to actually read books, and I enjoyed them because I began to understand how much work it took to create such beautiful worlds, and characters that were so lively that I felt I could simply ask them to be my friend, and they would.
And then I wrote, struggled, wrote, and struggled. And the same pattern continues.
Every word I put onto the page is an indefinite uphill climb for me. Things that are so easy for many, is a dirty trench for me. Words that take many writers only seconds, take me hours. When I’m around other writers, sometimes I want to hide because I’m not well read. But I always believe I will be by the time I’m fifty because I didn't have that head start.
Life can be incredibly cruel sometimes, and a lot of times the things that we’re so passionate about we lose because we don’t feel we can do it, or we feel we’re not good enough because someone’s already doing it better. But despite all of those things, I still put a book out there, I still write no matter how long it takes, or how bad it hurts.
I write past the stupid, I write past the unknowing, and I write because I believe there is a divine creator who asked me to write. And I feel the most at peace secluded up in the mountains under a tree with a pen and paper. It’s how I connect with the world, and have learned to understand it. So for now, I think I’ll dig out of my muddled hole and write, even if the tears come.
I will write.