Viewing myself as a writer through the lens of a looking glass, I notice so much potential. I see doors in my mind with amazing stories locked away. Lately, I have been scrambling to find the keys to unlock at least one door. I am desperate to tell these stories. I need to inspire others. Then, I close my eyes.
As I open them, I gaze through the looking glass; I see myself as a phenomenal writer. I see my budding wings of writing have grown into these amazingly, powerful wings. I fly whenever I like because I have an astounding story, I am an extraordinary writer, and I know exactly how to tell these stories.
I relish in the second vision. This conception is my destiny, and it will soon be my reality. If I had you a looking glass, what would you see? Would you see your future or your reality?
I have been writing since I was a child. In elementary school, I wrote a book in my gifted class. Eventually, I obtained a Master’s degree in English. I have published a poetry book, a journal, and a iBook textbook. Can I now claim that I am a writer? I have kept blogs for years. Comments are rare. Now, I am constantly monitoring my stats on my main two blogs. When I notice a decline or that no one has read a post, I feel a sting of disappointment.
Could my perception of what and who a writer is be false? Am I a writer? Can I claim that I am a writer, even though no one is walking up to me and asking for my autograph? Should I even possess a perception of what a writer is?
Am I a writer?
Sometimes, I stare at blank pages and wish they could capture exactly what is on my mind. Censorship is always a worry for me. I don’t work for myself. I always wonder if my employer will approve or disapprove of my thoughts and fire me. Therefore, leaving my family to be in a dire situation. Sometimes, the blank page on my computer is a deafening silence. I want to be heard. I want to express the outrage about things. I want to share what I really think should occur. Yet, the blank page remains censored. I want to use profanity without being categorized as unintelligent. I want to express exciting things about sex and lust. Yet, when my page is finally filled, my real thoughts are smothered by what is acceptable and align with the perception people have of me. One day, I want to be at a point where my writing is accepted just the way it is. Not only accepted… But appreciated.
When I write, I find myself second guessing my delivery of whatever it is that I am writing. From a journal entry to an email, I rewrite and rewrite and rewrite. I have people read it. I question their understanding of what I wrote. I second guess what they share with me. I use Grammarly to catch all the grammatical errors. I google similar examples to make sure that I am on task. I believe at times this hinders me from being my true self as a writer. I want just to write. I want to be free from the confines of drafting for perfection. I want to be able to share what I want to say without being in the prison cell of perfection. Perhaps my confidence in my writing ability needs to improve to evolve adequately beyond the realms of perfect writing. Does perfection exists in the world of writing?