This is an excerpt from the post Grit Through:
I’ve always had grand ideas but only puny words to say. Writing had never been a natural talent for me, and I don’t kid myself believing that it ever will be. Sometimes, it is painful to write knowing that I will never be good enough. The thought makes me bitter. Angry at the craft. I want to shred it up. Set fire to my computer. Shriek at it. Despise it. Hate it. Leave it.
But then I always return. I guess that’s just called love.
Writing and me. We exist in a one sided relationship. I love writing. I really do. But, the going is tough and I have to coax and cry and plead. I dedicate my time and frustration trying to please it all for the simplest of reactions. A blessing of the perfect word here, a muttering of the loveliest phrase there.
When that happens, I invariably turn to jelly. Worth it, I would say. The writer’s block, the self-deprecating criticisms, the guilt of commitment. Every. Single. Thing. Worth it.
Writing has always been indifferent to my efforts, but that never really mattered. I’m in love. Trapped? Yes. I can’t leave, but then again I don’t think I want to.
I hadn’t realized that it got this bad. I’ve never been addicted to anything before. But here I am, starved for words and stories. I have been given the power of creation, and, my God, it is intoxicating.
It’s all a bit unhealthy, I guess. Writing points out my flaws and my mistakes. It never ceases to highlight my insecurities or my desperate need for approval. When I write, I see myself anew. The words on the page are like a mirror, and they reflect me like a broken kind of spotlight. I am forced to realize how imperfect I am. With myself so plainly presented in front of me, I realize that progress really only comes in two distinct directions: Acceptance or change.
Like any relationship, love takes effort and time and patience. Everyday, I painstakingly make mistakes and try to rectify them with little apologies. Oh I’m sorry. I forgot that you didn’t like adverbs. I promise that I will remember next time.
Some days I would sense that my hard work might be working. Every day, it gets a little better. On the odd blue moon, I feel as if it might even love me back.
So it’s worth it. One day. It will all be worth it.
For the daily prompt: Profound .