Reflections of My Somewhat Writer Self

Friends and acquaintances usually have an impression and/or expectation that when someone wants to be a writer or is already one, has a different sense of reality. That most of the conversation you’ll encounter with a writer would be reflective or deep. Maybe those people are just my friends and not others in general. Anyhow, writing is also considered by some as an old, dying trade, so finances might crumble on top of the writer’s lap.

When I don’t meet those expectations, the thought makes me feel that something is wrong with me. Why the hell did I choose to write?

Friends of friends might even be surprised and gasp that “Oh, you like to write. That’s great!”

but behind your back you’ll hear them whisper, “I can’t believe her. Poor girl.” 

or even

“A writer? She’s too ordinary!”

An imprint to aspiring individuals that gives a sense of strangeness. Weirdness and peculiarity suddenly become an obligation to at least meet a quarter of those expectations and finally label one’s self as a writer.

These are worries that come to my mind. Sometimes they all seem surreal that I can’t even believe what I’m hearing or seeing. Maybe these are just part of my imagination. Hallucination. Low self-esteem.

Incidents like the ones I have mentioned make me question my choice. Why did I choose to be part of this dream? Heck, many don’t even know the difference.

Money matters




and other Validations

They matter…

Even some of the closest people to me could not understand the feeling that I have. Thoughts cramped through my head with words unexplained, scenarios, stories, characters, all trying to hammer their way out. But they just stay  still, because I feel some fear, crawling in my veins. Waiting for an escape.

My words don’t seem to matter, and I feel alone. Still, there’s one good thing that never leaves me.

Sweet treats and delicious dishes!  🙂

If no words bother me, I keep my hands moving: peeling, cutting, stirring, and sometimes tasting. 😉

When I get a cut at times, I smile because that tells me I’m breathing, I’m still alive.

Then this cycle continues until I don’t know when. Maybe when someone starts to listen when someone cares. Sorry, for all the blubber and my ever poetic drift. My ears keep remembering that I chose to be like this, so I should stop procrastinating and worrying. I should start writing. Longer, better, and much stronger.


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