Writing With My Heart On A Pen

Be honest with me…tell me what you think if it.
Tell me, just tell me. I can’t stand this silence.
I just need someone outside to tell me what the voice inside of me is screaming.

That I suck.
That my stuff is boring.
That my writing is boring.

That it’s confusing to read.
That’s why no one can ever bother reading it to the end right?


It’s just only natural in the creative process to be knocked down with a feeling of incompetence. But I could remember a time when that voice shut up and stopped talking for a good number of years. Now it’s back and it’s rattling at my ear.
Is this negative voice important for the creative process?

I’d like to say that it is.

But I’d rather just live without it. Because if it gains too much power then it completely stops me from writing. It’s like an ocean wave in the face of a surfer. If you ride the negativity it boosts you to a higher level allowing to create miraculous things with your writing. But if you get sucked in by the tide it will completely DESTROMINATE you. Leave you worst than a hopeless meth addict.

Please, tell me it’s good,
Please, read it,
Please, please finish reading it.
Please, I need to know.
Why am I still doing this?
Why is this killing me???

It’s just for me,

I’m doing it just for me
So why?
Why is this feeling consuming me?!

Right now I’m just teetering on the edge. I feel like it’s going to over power me. It gobbled me up two months ago where I spent weeks crying about my incompetence.


I really hadn’t done this since my high school years. And that is almost 7 years ago.

Yes, I’ve spent a long time not knowing what a writer’s block felt like. Or creative frustration in writing. Things always came to me seamlessly. I’d had more art block than writing blocks over passage of the years. And what’s great is I’d share my overflowing creativity with others.

On a friend’s novel I’ve poured plenty of ideas… so…What the fuck happened? For these past couple days I spent reflecting on myself, and things that had happened. Analyzing my emotions. I know that if I don’t do something, this evil dark passenger will come and consume me.


Yes that is the one formula that has changed before my decent of creative self loathing.

For my original works, I never get much feedback. Primary since I write these things in secret. Only the artwork of such ideas and works gets shared. ALL ARTWORK I HAVE HAS A BACKSTORY. I never draw something without having meaning behind it.

I’ve said it several times, and I always do.

I am a writer first and and artist second.

The only writings that are mostly public displayed are my fanfiction. A hobby that I have gotten into after high school. You can even look around this blog—you will find links everywhere that leads to my fanfic works.

For me to gain the strength to share my personal writing to someone takes a lot. Because it’s my blood and guts on paper. I’ve gain the confidence to show it to friends. My own family doesn’t read any of my writing not even my fanfiction.

I have a dear friend that I’ve started sharing my personal works, but waiting for the proper feed back is like being locked in an iron maiden. Every time I ask, I don’t get the response I desire, and it’s mutilating me. I don’t keep asking because I feel like I’m being needy and stupid.

It really isn’t her fault. But rather my realization of my own sensitivity.

She’s busy
She works
She has other better things to do
Why am I being so selfish?!
Why am I so selfish?
Admit it. She’s just confused by all your canon
Your write that shit so complicated!
She’s already bored by it but won’t admit it.
You pathetic.
She’s probably just being nice

I want ask her if she read it.
If she finished reading it.
Did she?
She’s probably tired of me asking
She hasn’t said anything of this picture.
Does she even bother caring about my stuff?!

I don’t think she cares about my canon
She just says so to be nice.
She doesn’t even finish reading the little that I have out.
Why should I post more?

Why are you sounding like this?
Your just beating yourself up for nothing
This is just your imagination!!!
She’s busy.
I just wish I could hear the truth.
I just want to hear it already.
Tell me.

This is killing me…

I can’t take it anymore.

I feel like I’m being looked down upon
I know I capable. I don’t have to prove that I write a lot
And since when is the amount of words prove the talent of a writer?
I don’t have to prove anything.
I don’t have to say anything.
But why does this bother me?

Why is this killing me?!

I lack confidence? Do I lack confidence? Yes, I admit. I don’t have much faith in myself, even thought I have believed that I’ve had the confidence. But is it really just confidence? Well I look at my art. I lack confidence with my art. I can see the parts that need improvement. I spent hours patching up my artwork with things to make it look decently professional.

But I post it online.

I post most of my artwork online. I have practice of always showing it to others. And the feedback I have received on it made me realize that I can even do commissions. However, for me it is easier in retrospect to share crappy artwork, then it is to share crappy writing.

I have no shame in going back and plucking my funky sketches of dancing bellsprout, rainbows and trees, and post it online. I can run out in the street and wave it front of people and yell, “Look at my shitty art!” I have no problems doing that.

But take my first draft of my novel and post it as is? I more quickly jump off a bridge before that happens. Even just sharing my novel in general is just nightmarish for me. Is it because of the grammer?


It’s not the aesthetics, it’s the content.

Do I write porn? No. Do I write graphic violence? No. Do I write controversial topics? I’m not sure. But most likely not.

Soo…. why am I pissing myself about it? Why am I being ashamed of something that is so PG that even rainbow unicorns can be dancing in the background? Why?

Well… I’m not sure about the PG part. But when I write for myself, I am being honest with myself. I don’t care about the porn or the romance. I am spiritual and psychological. I desire to dive into the minds of the characters and present mundane things in fictional context. (Because I write fantasy) When those things desire to cross the bloody and the slutty then I just pick them up as I go.

So yes, there is some sexual themes, there is some violence, sadism, insanity even. But I don’t pinpoint it and glorify it. Ravish in the fact that I am writing about it. I rather enjoy myself in the smaller interactions and development of the characters. The growth of relationship. Themes and lessons taught. I want my writing to have purpose, to target the emotions to relate to the reader. To relate to me.

In the face of my writing is my image. It is my soul and it expresses who I am and what I believe. That is my writing. My original writing is a representation of my person.

So it’s odd. OR at least I feel it is odd.

I’ve been told I come up with brilliant ideas…

But are my stories that come from those ideas good? Will people even care about things I write? Or will they just look for the fantastical? The exaggerated romance, and the glorified violence in popular stories and movies?

“You can be like J.K. Rowling!” my friend Jiharah told me years ago in high school.

No, but thank you.

I was flattered at the time. But thinking about it now, I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want my book everywhere. I don’t even want everyone thinking that it’s the greatest thing in the universe. I just want to finish it and have those few people that appreciate the meaning of its themes to hold it close to their heart.

One book did that to me.

It was called “Little Woman”.

It did become popular. But the author of the book Louisa May Alcott, wrote based of her own beliefs and convictions. It was a reflection of her own soul. Everyone including me, wanted the heroine Jo, to be with Laurie, but she as the authoress didn’t want that to happen. She wrote it how she wanted and Jo ended up happily married with a professor.

I’ve always hated it that the story never went the way I wanted it to. But I held and still hold the greatest respect for that book. I bought copies of it every time I lost it. And when I read her biography in college; I was taken back, how Ms. Alcott truly had placed her spirit in that book.

Don’t get me wrong—I admire J.K. Rowling, in all honesty and her writing and stories are fabulous. I just have no desire for fame or grand recognition.

So in the end why am I so timid in sharing my personal writing? Is it confidence? Do I lack confidence in my own writing? Yes in parts it is my confidence, but the bigger reason is the exposition of the inner workings of my head. It be poked at, and waiting for feedback hurts.

Perhaps, I had imagined that I could take it. Because I’ve always felt so confident in my writing. And I am in every way a pathetic wuss. But I’ve decided to frame my mind into not expecting and not desiring any feedback whatsoever.

I struggle with the need to share and not wanting to share. But I know that with these personal writings, I will just not share, and not expect any commentary in return. Not at least until I have a finished product. Because once it is done, everything and anything could be said—but I won’t change it because it is finished.

My need to share will be put out to in the form of my artwork, and small explanations. It will enough to hold out until I complete it and gain enough strength to expose my soul to the world…


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