I am participating in the ‘Writing Contest: Overcoming Writer’s Doubt’ held by Positive Writer. Here is the link to the website: positivewriter.com/writing-contest-doubt/

One letter after the next

She’s a young girl, insignificant to all except few. She loves to read and write. She always has. Her story, her stories, may never make a difference. Who is she to make a difference? That discourages her, but she writes anyway, for the thrill. She dreams to be a critically acclaimed writer. She also dreams another dream, a bigger one. She dreams of words that outlive her. She dreams of what she can never live to see. She dreams of this ideal world. She dreams and she hopes yet she has no hope at all. But she writes. She writes, for the thrill.

She has ideas; she jots them down, she has a red notebook, she reads, she notes, she observes. She writes. She writes, for the thrill. She writes because it’s in her blood. She writes because  the act defines her. She doesn’t know how to convince herself of things, things she knows aren’t real. Because despite how pessimistic she seems, she is not. She sees things for what they are. She believes there’s a way to reach the ideal world. But she doesn’t believe in lying to herself to get there. She’ll give herself all the reasons why she will never make it, and then she tells herself that she will. Everything, is a possibility, isn’t it?

She- nay- we, live in complete controversy. However we put one foot in front of the other. Because it’s not where you’re going, it’s how you get there. Isn’t it? Her ears have heard these words repeatedly, her head has refused to listen to them repeatedly. It’s easier said than done. Though, eventually, we get it done.

The most optimistic are pessimistic. It’s a feeling that strikes. It strikes you, me, we. We will never conquer it. We won’t. The greats fall to pieces at times. Others always feel they do. I am not one nor the other. I fail to lie to myself, I fail to comfort myself with words I cannot believe, I fail to lie to give advice but I also fail to give bad advice. I find the balancing point, the one where the ideal exists, the one where you literally have the best of both worlds. I say what’s real, and knowing what’s real, you can put up with it. Isn’t that the greatest way of overcoming anything? Despite…, you still can…

I wish to write for it is in my blood. I cannot fight the urge to hold a pen in my hands. I enjoy the pain in my thumb that only comes for I’ve held my fountain pen for long. I love the sudden enlightenment that I cannot see, that I only  feel… when I suddenly know. It’s that feeling that strikes.

If I wish not to lie to myself, then I must write. For I am not I with no pen in my hand.

I haven’t overcome, yet I write I a story about how I overcame. So which one is it? Not one nor the other I suppose. However, in any case, I write one letter after the next. I dream of a promising future for it is one that is yet to be shaped by its actors.

She writes. For the thrill.


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