Even though I am fighting against the heat, alongside the heavy hours of my day job, yearning for a day off that I haven’t seen for four weeks now, I feel like this post was meant to be written. The other day, while contemplating what should I write for this weeks “Process of writing” I stumble on a peculiar notification from my WordPress. “Congrats on the two year anniversary of the Word Den!” . I was shocked a bit, not really knowing the precise date when it all started and surely not being aware it’s been already two years. Time is for certain the silent killer, one that slips through even our mind’s grasp, but seeing that notification made me happy, prideful and yet it filled my heart with such sorrow I couldn’t even imagine.
The confession of a writer
It’s been two years since the Word Den was created. And it’s been two more since I started this whole journey, creating my first book “The Lonesome Road” which came out few months ago. So four, if not more, years passed and looking back at my achievements I couldn’t but feel shame. What have I accomplished? What did I do? Do I feel happy looking back on all these years as a writer? I thought by now I will do more, that by now I will be more. But now, even after all the misery experienced, my life remains the same. Every year I make big promises, saying I am going abroad, trying my hand in something else, that next year I won’t do a shitty job like I do now. And every year I fail, staying at the same place, working the same job, fighting with the thoughts that I am not worthy of my life. And today, while sitting at my break at work, a thought came to my mind. Perhaps I am really not worthy of this life, perhaps I merely withheld a potential, as maybe if someone esle had an opportunity to live it, they would do a better job. Dark thoughts I know, as lately all I am having are dark thoughts. Truth be told even this year I thought I would fail, not even making the promises of progress that I make to myself and others and just stay in place. But life throws unforseen paths, so now I will have to risk it all, and as time approaches for me to move somewhere else, I am scared. Few days ago I saw an old friend I rarely see now. He asked am I going abroad and I said yea next year, to which he answered you tell me that every year. Hearing those words broke my already cracked heart. Am I really that to my friends, a lost soul that seeks something he can never truly grasp? And now, seeing that it is the two year anniversary of the Den, I dropped deeper in the rabbit hole of thought and despair. I know I don’t do as much as I should for this to become my career. Even after writing three books I am not sure I still have what it takes to do this. As writers we are taught by our fellow colleagues that whatever you write, write for yourself as in that case it ensures quality, a book, a story you would want to read would get recognised. But yet, we the ones who pull our soul into the written letter, we strive for validation. After all I’ve done, I still do not know is it good, is it bad, without a solid critique I feel like I am merely drifting into obscurity just to be eaten away by the darkens of the void my mind creates. Even knowing how stupid that sounds, doubt is the current currency in which my mind deals. I know, time will only show, I need to be patient and trust my skills and instinct and yet all my life I felt like a man without time. As if all my achievements should have occurred earlier and now I am lacking, in life, in personality, in soul. Is it because of the society that told me my time is wasting away that I feel so soulless, empty? Or is it perhaps my own dumb quest of putting myself out there in a different place that keeps me from reaching the sorely missed potential? Five years or so have passed since I started writing. Do I have anything to show for it? A blog that has thousands of views, three books that even after I pulled a piece of my soul in each I still feel lacking to call myself a writer. After this prolonged thought, a question remains… What is a writer? How is a writer’s creed and quality measured? Is it the recognition we so foolishly seek, wanting nothing more then pedestals to be put on, that our name is sung and praised for eternity as it is sung of many greats that came before? Or is it perhaps a smile? An intrigue raised in the eyes of the beholder, making the one that holds the written pages, grasping them ever so tightly, wanting more? Is it perhaps that our purpose is to inspire, to motivate, to bring the satisfaction of mind that not all can provide nor obtain?
For what is worth, the attempt counts
I realise this was a bit out of the blue. I go missing for weeks, perhaps now when more then ever I should be here present with all of you, my book practically came out and yet I went away. To be honest, I do possess a good excuse, working everyday for 10 hours without a day off, but frankly I am sick and tired of excuses. I know I can and I am “willing” to write, put out content weekly, other then me pouring out my soul like this to you guys once a week. Ever since I became a writer, hell even before that, I encountered the infamous imposter syndrome. But now is different, I can’t explain it, as if the syndrome consumed my daily life and feelings, spilling itself from my writing counterpart. I doubt not just my writing, but my existence as a whole. I made so many mistakes in life, took so many turns that resulted in too many “Tomorrow I will change” that just vanished away. As always I am perhaps too harsh on myself, as always I need to realise this is a grind and I should keep my head up and get back to the trenches. Even a start of a thing is admirable. And I feel like I did more then just start, I feel like I did more then just wish for a better tomorrow and stood in one place. But it breaks a man, those many attempts that resulted in nothingness, how many times can one rise until he decides enough is enough, what’s the point? With all my troubles, with all my scars and the heavy burden I carry, I wonder, does this all count as a mere attempt, just another shot of mine at something or is it my true redemption, my true calling, proving to myself I am something more then what people saw me for?
I am not quitting
Sometimes it feels like I am. As obligations get the better of me, as the bills need to be paid and relationships need to be mended, I set aside this endeavour of mine for quite some time. But it calls, it beckons, like a sweet tune of a song, it never goes away from my mind. Am I really good enough to do it? Perhaps. Is my life destined for something far less then the greatness of the written word? Maybe. But I won’t quit. I can’t. Because if I do I am betraying all I fought for, every redemption I worked for, as this is much more then writing. This is a chance to prove to myself, to all, that I am not worthless, that my life means something, that I have something to offer to the world. A written word of my suffering that might come as comfort to some, guidance to others and resolution to many. Perhaps I won’t ever get my shot, but if I do, I know, my mind has to rest easy. As this is my path of life, the path of self worth, the path of my own glory. Perhaps I drift into the obscurity of the void, only remembered by my failed attempts, known only as the one who never truly tried or was able to make it, a man made of mere wishes, never out of actions or decisions. Whatever fate has in store for me, wherever this path may take me, I know I must feel the pride of my ways, after taking so many wrongs ones, I need to trust this is the right one. Perhaps I am just a man without time, a lost soul who has wronged his life beyond repair that any attempt of salvation is futile. But does that mean I should not try? Even if I do not know will my effort be worth it, I know this. When it comes to not doing anything, staying in the hole of misery with your own thoughts or attempting to do anything, no matter how slight or insignificant it may be, I will always chose to move forward. I have seen what staying in one place, wallowing in my own self pity brings and it scares me. Because of that fear I shall always move on, go forward and do something, anything, knowing well what doing nothing and giving up brings. As even if the void swallows me whole, let it be known, I too have tried, I too made an effort, I too kept walking forward. Be it a leap, a single step or even crawling, please do know I too tried to move forward.