I’M NOT TALENTED

Posted On November 8, 2015

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Hello, I’m back part-time with writing as it is. I’ve tried Nanowrimo and haven’t backed down yet even though I’m literally about 6 days behind so far. We’ll see how it goes, eh?

I’ve found a wonderful, beautiful website and community known as INKSHARES where one can post their manuscript or draft or finished novel for potential readers to view and to fund and promote ala Kickstarter. It’s great! But…as I peruse the other books and realize how much I just don’t belong or stand out among the writing community–even the indie thinkers–I wonder…am I really talented?

It seems natural and the norm to write in such an entrancing form of third person when it comes to those kinds of epic novels or basically any book, really. But I’m not gifted in that way at all. In fact, even my styles leave so much to be desired, as I sacrifice my well-being and understanding to take on another’s soul and feelings for them to scribe the words for me. But…is that right? Am I really just…pretending I have some kind of talent? Or am I so “avant-garde” that I don’t even think I have meaning anymore? haha… Or…

It just surprises me. All the books have so much potential on Inshares. They all sound and feel like actual novels. Mine don’t.

I wonder if there should be a time where I learn how to express myself that way–to practice or to relearn how it should be done. To take courses and practice the art of writing.

Or…

Should I continue to follow my heart? Even though it doesn’t lead me anywhere… And I’ve lost all faith in myself and any worth I may have had left.

Or maybe… that’s just it. I don’t think I have any worth anymore. No meaning. Nothing I have… makes me feel anything anymore.

It’s not my books. It’s me.

What can I do…

to change myself?

It’s not comforting when it’s my pain I have to deal with. I write drahm novels all day long about other’s ills. I take on everyone’s pain from those succumbed to madness to those dealing with immeasurable loneliness and grief even after 500 years. And yes, it hurts, but I love it because I’m showing someone (even someone “fictional”), that I care with all my being. But when it’s me…

who’s going to care? When there’s no one even there in the first place?

No. I’m not talented. I’m not like everyone else.

I can’t write like that. I can’t understand why I am the way I am.

I can only tell what others tell me. Those from a distant land, plain, or dimension that glimmers only in the soul. Those people that thrive in dreams and dance just outside our reach.

I’m not talented. But…

I have something… I need to do. Stories I need to tell. Souls and friends ethereal that request me so kindly to listen to them.

So…

that’s what I do.

If only someone would read them. And get it.

That I’m not like everyone else at all. And maybe…just maybe… that’s actually OK.

I’m sorry it got emotional all the sudden. That wasn’t my first intention. I’m…

I’m really dangling off the precipice now. I didn’t think it was possible. I’ve…

I’ve never been this depressed and hopeless before.

But I’ll be OK. Just…

in a few months. Maybe…a few years.

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