I’m reading Stephen King’s On Writing and I’m thinking – I’m probably not cut out for this profession.
I’m never gonna be a bestselling author.
Yes, there are days when I’m sure I was made for it but those Eureka moments are few and far between.
Then again, Stephanie Mayer’s Twilight Saga was her debut as well as breakout novel so maybe just maybe it’s not my time yet.
It’s not supposed to be difficult – or is it?
Maybe I haven’t been hearing or seeing properly – I’m probably seeing (other) things. Maybe I haven’t been able to activate my senses that part of my brain for this sole purpose – or maybe it’s underdeveloped! Everything’s just so blank, vague and disjointed.
I’ve been trying to find meaning in my struggle with fiction. As unbelievable as it sounds, it’s extremely difficult for me to come up with something – which includes the writing – from my imagination and I have no idea why.
But on the other hand, it’s easier to talk about reality and everything in between and to be honest, it’s exhausting especially since I’m rather indifferent to a lot of things – It’s absurd. Ideally, my indifference should be an incentive of sorts but no, I’d rather wallow in books.
I know I’m probably supposed to give myself time to figure things out and let it come naturally and blah blah. (You’d be amazed at where writers get their ideas from). If everything else fails, I could always write a memoir of my unadventurous life.
Please tell me I’m not going crazy or unnecessarily fretting over all of this unbecoming near – obsession.
Although, my gut feeling says I might eventually. I probably also need something to look at back on and write about. I haven’t been on earth that long…. I have the rest of my life.