I am only human.
I can´t see the difference in light and dark lately. The sky feels close to my eyes.
Being me is just another excuse to not be someone else.
Writing gives me headaches. It gives me an imaginable fear that transcribes itself to the page.
I can´t write.
But I do not know how to live any other way.
I often thinking it is too late to be able to change the world. Too late for me to be able to change people with words. It seems like everyone has the world figured it out and it is making their way up to the beauty of life.
I have no fucking idea what I am doing. I have no fucking idea how will I become who I what to become. I really have no idea.
After all I am only human, with words instead of dreams. Or maybe words that are dreams. I don´t know.
Writing is so hard for me. It makes me live in pain, I eager for a breath. A pause. Something.
Writing is so fun and so easy, the things that need to be said just leave my fingertips with such velocity that I have no idea why do I take 5 years to just start a fucking sentence.
What is wrong with me?
Being me is being someone with a fire soul that cannot rest until a page is filled. And after that still feels incomplete. It is not enough to fill my desire to just write again.
I read books about this craft. I wake up believing that I will make it. That someday; somehow I will be able to just spill the words to the page at any living moment of me.
I do think the gravest sin a writer can make is to be consumed by its own fear. Its own lack of imagination.
I am so guilty of this that I can´t count the times that I stopped myself in the dead of the twilight. I stopped myself from creativity. My fear is so strong. So ridiculous.
Being this hurt soul that I am makes me a better writer. Makes a better feeler.
I used to tell people that I was a soul writer because it was so easy for me to just put the feeling on the page you know? But later this habit of mine just made a lacuna in my brain. A dent that hurts me like a lost limb.
I just can´t feel that much and when I do I just have no idea if I should write or if it is just not worth it. Who in the world would want to read such stupidity?
The truth is that creativity is not a human trait that you can access whenever the fuck you feel like it.
Listen, I making this shit up. I am not chasing my words because the genie in the back of my head is reciting them to me. Not really.
To be honest I am not even in the mood. To be honest I absolutely would obliterate this piece of paper right now because I do hate every word uttered here. But I am not.
Because being a writer is not about waiting for the right moment or when fear finally decides to retreat.
It is about sitting down. It is about just putting your fingers in the keyboard and type way. Even if is one word or one hundred words.
And trust me they will probably suck.
Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
I am not a perfect genius, I am not here to be a perfect genius.
Fuck, I am here because I want to. Because I have something to say that no-one in the entirety of the whole planet has to say. My writing is unique. It is dark and fearful and just erratic. It is shit! And that is amazing. Because it still means that it is here. That it exists and that it is not going anywhere at all!
I had to come down to a coffee shop to write this piece because I am struggling with just putting one word in the paper. Afraid that it would be utter shit. And it is!
But that is marvellous, it is spontaneous and it is real.
Life is shit. Creativity doesn’t grown in trees and fairy light will not make somehow inspired.
This innovative way of writing that somehow newer writers believe is bullshit. All of it. Every writer knows the drill, knows how hard and how easy the craft comes to them. Even so it does not mean that it will stay that way.
I am making no sense at all and I probably have a ton of grammar mistakes here. Which I am gonna keep. Because I want to know that I did it wrong. That it fucking sucks.
That I can somehow see the repetitive words or the weird analogies or just the lack of sense all together and just combine them. It is a formula to a better me. This letter.
Because I do disagree with you Stephen King, for anyone to be a good or even a great writer they need to be bad first. Really bad. Otherwise how will you know what good is?
I want to improve. I want to just open my heart to my blank sheet. I want to be a literal open book, to write because it is fun and because it is impossible not to.
A lot of people will not understand this letter and that is okay. It just means that it is not for you. And I hope that the ones that get this words stop being afraid of the incomplete.