Day 9/30 → I have always wanted to be an amazing writer — one that people look up to; one that others use as an inspiration; one who’s proud and confident of her work.
I am nowhere near any of those.
Sure, I write better than some people. Sure, my grammar’s good and my vocabulary’s okay. But it takes more than just those to become a writer. It takes more than forming a grammatically correct sentence or knowing the difference between your and you’re or realizing that there’s no such word as stuffs (as plural of the noun; not singular form of the verb) or informations.
I have been writing for as long as I can remember but I’ve never been 101% proud of my content.
I would read through essays or articles or short stories, or even blogs of some of my favorite writers — those that I really look up to — and I would always be in awe and (sadly) envious of their work.
It’s like words just flow out of them and here I am, constantly struggling just to be able to string words and put together a coherent content that won’t sound blab-ish (you know, those that seem like the person’s just being utterly repetitive and, well, blah). It’s an endless tug-o’-war within and more often than not, I get too frustrated at myself because why the fucking hell can’t I be as great of a writer as they are?
Of course, I realize that I shouldn’t be comparing myself to these people in the first place. Some of us are just born a certain way and some of us actually take the time (which I never did) to hone their skills to get themselves to where they are now.
But still, there are instances when you just can’t help but yearn for more; wish that you’re better or at least as good as others are; and be annoyed at yourself for being just who you are.
I constantly wish that I was better. I will probably always be envious of those who are better. But I won’t hate on them and I certainly would not bring myself down.
After all, if practice doesn’t make it perfect, it certainly will put me a little closer to it.