Seeing Your Own Flaws · 10:31am May 5th, 2016
Once in an indeterminate while, a writer sits at her desk that bears the weight of her writing instruments, and considers their worth.
In this moment, she tries to free herself from the nagging sensation of ego, of arrogance, of self-assured construction of her safe reality and concentrates on herself instead of her writing for once. She knows that this is a hard task, for writing is a part of her identity as much as anything else, and recently, it weighs deeply in her mind.
What is writing? she thinks to herself. Am I worthy of it?
She realises this is a silly question. There is no worth one has to prove to write, but there is judgement. For writing is different in the domain of the publisher, the writer wants to communicate, and she is judged by her peers in writing, her peers in reading, her peers in the language that expresses the core ideal of herself.
A little while later, the writer places her hands on the keyboard, having moved away from her traditional roots. She once started with pencil, then pen on paper. Now she writes with latest technology. She begins to write a sentence. It was not about characters, not about worlds, not about the values of life and love and loss that she has grown accustomed to sharing. It was of herself.
She writes down her flaws and tries to see them through the lens of her cracked, dirty mirror glasses. For once, the rose-tint fades away, and she sees the little things about herself that she was afraid of seeing before. The little smile she has all the time, it seems disingenuous. Dark circles cling below her eyes that hides fear of disappointment behind pride. She is a person that is incapable of telling anyone what she really feels, for fear of hurting their feelings. She is a person that lives in fear of what they think, so she bears the burden of trying to please them in hope that they will think better of her, and accept her into their midst.
They don't know she's a liar.
This girl hides behind her mask, not only amongst her friends, but to those she writes to. Her flaws are many, and she tries to hide them under a smile. She takes comfort in building the little worlds moulded from paper and ink. In the beginning she had shown them to these strangers, to gain a little acceptance, to take comfort in their encouragement. She's terrible, but she has potential, so some comments are helpful.
Some are hurtful, but she hides it under a smile.
It's strange, that she cares so much. In the beginning, it was an escape, it was a way to let off some steam, a way to take off those tinted, chipped frames and see only the world she plays in. Later it became an obsession, some liked what she wrote, they wanted more. So she obliged, writing more and more and more.
The comments are thoughtful, but they are wary of her. She could disappoint them.
Her fear gets the better of her. She reads guides, asks for help, writes draft after draft, trying to get her words to sound right, to sound perfect. She succeeds! Her words are popular. She smiles, and for the first time in a long time, it's genuine. The comments make her happy. The ratings make her happy. The interest of her readers make her happy. She loves the limelight.
It has stolen her heart.
Then it happens. Her flop. It was inevitable. She was not a master writer. She was a fake. She was no longer writing for herself. She wasn't even writing for her readers. She was writing for the ratings. She was writing for the comments. She needed the validation of her stories as if it were a validation of her own life. The writer has become trapped in her own sordid pride. She's afraid to take off the glasses now. How ugly would her reflection be if she caught it in a passing mirror? With fists clenched so tight she though she might draw blood, the girl draws the courage to take the glasses off.
She would not give up.
It was horrific. Her skin was marred with the obsession of pursuing happiness. Her lips were puckered with the self-righteous poison she spewed from her lips. It stared back with hollow, vague eyes.
When did it become like this?
Then she does something that she herself probably didn't expect. She laughed. It started as a small chuckle that began from the bottom of her heart. With each wheezing, croaking chortle, the girl laughs the obsession out of her system and replaces it with a hapless smile of acceptance. She was never beautiful, she was just as ugly as before, but she had deluded herself into thinking that it could be solved through her false ambitions, her self-serving gratification that neither cared for others, or for herself.
She smiles, looks at her terrible writing and laughs. She would try again.
It is some time after that seminal moment. The girl sits at her desk, pondering her journey. It was a long one, but it didn't seem that long to her. It was an arduous journey, but it didn't seem like that at the time. It was transformative, but she doesn't feel changed. The writer only knows that she hungers for the next time she puts pen to paper, hand to keyboard, mouse over 'publish'. She wonders if her writing was about her characters, her world, her carefully crafted lives. She wonders if her writing is about the stories any more.
She wonders instead... if the writing is about her.
It's about me, even though it's not.
A pretty nice, introspective text.
This will sound cliche... but who cares? Perfection is boring. Something, or someone, with flaws is far, far more interesting. Relatable, even.
Just keep being your awesome self
I obviously haven't been here from the start, but I love your stories, and you seem like a fun person to be around as well.
And not fun just in the way of amusement - but in general, good company.
Obviously it's hard to judge from the internet (anonymity ahoy!), but still.
I'll track you and drag you out for a beer or soft drink or something. Yes, that's a threat of a good time
3921479 If we ever meet, I'm sure I'll have a blast :P
WhAT tHe heLL iS tHIs?/1! WhERe aRE THe upDAtEs?>! RAnT%@^#
but in all the seriousness you wrote that "ratings" and "good comments" have stolen your heart,
well your stories have stolen my heart :))
keep up the good work and never give up, we-, i count on you :))
Well fuck.
Thank you for typing this out. Seeing another's perspective might just have helped me to see where I was - staring in a mirror myself. So yeah.
Thanks. Really.
3921496 Now just to stalk you for eternity to figure out if I'm even remotely near you
I can haz car! Thoug I have not yet discovered how to use its teleporting capability. Where is a Twilight when you need her.
3921550 N'aww thanks, I really appreciate it :)
3921872 I'm actually really glad that my own experience would help someone else!