I don’t write stories, and my poetry is pretentious. I can’t make a character believable or a landscape identifiable. The words I use are convoluted and ambiguous, and I’m not quite sure what it was that provided me the inspiration and conviction that I wanted to be a writer. I’m sure I would make a fantastic kindergarten teacher, or a nurse. I’m very caring, and I always have a chest of words ready for comforting. I have a good moral compass, but way too much sense and realism to be the sort of writer I want to be. I want surrealism, I want fiction, I want stories that you can’t believe happened – but I am too scared. I am too scared, and I am too stuck, and I need a life plan too badly to do anything I want.
I am too afraid to be scared somewhere else from where I am now. I am sitting in some stupid, suburban library, going back to my stupid suburban home and I feel as if I must be going crazy. I’m doing tasks one after another like ants stashing food for winter, or planets orbiting. Same thing every thousand million years. I am doing nothing. I am not writing, and I miss writing, but I feel like I lack all the basics of a writer. Apart from the passion. Even that is stunted because of my fear of failure. But what is like but a constant stream of failures and readjustments? Still, knowing this, and believing in it is not enough for me to become unafraid.
Maybe I read too many “guides” – how to cook, how to be an international teacher, how to stay out of trouble when travelling, how to save up money and spend money and make sure you earn enough money to save it, how to become a better reader and writer and thinker and logician, how to write essays, how to deal with people, how to dress, how to be, how to see things.
I don’t like guides anymore – they just make me want 500 things and accomplish none of them.