The Story of My Stories

28 Jan

I began telling tales as soon as I could talk and I started writing them down not long after that. Like I’ve said before, I’ve always known what I was good at: writing. But I don’t necessarily think that this skill means anything – natural abilities are not to be bragged on because you didn’t earn them. 

But I have spent a long time writing, for piddly little newspapers and yeah a pageant magazine and this plot of narcissus. I’ve learned a lot, and the key thing is: being good isn’t good enough. It means very little to be good when there are other people who want it more, who have more time, and don’t have egos as large as mine (it’s huge seriously) who don’t retch at the thought of rewrites. 

I feel compelled to write and share because it’s the only thing I’ve ever been really good at it but I also hate it because god damn it what a stupid thing to be good at. There! That was a preposition! At the end of a sentence

I do it, on some level, because I have to. But I’m deathly afraid of being bad at it. Or else being good, or better, and having to keep doing it. I don’t want to do it every day, for money, like I did. I need to be more surefooted. I need to spend time on it rather than rewatching episodes of Criminal Minds. It’s so easy to do what’s not helpful. 

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