What Is Writing?

I don't even enjoy writing. I don't even have success as a writer: 8 times of 10 I get criticized or completely ignored. I don't even deserve writing, I mean, seriously: do I really have talent? Who do I think I am?

Still, pretending that it doesn't matter that now it takes me so much effort to write few lines sometimes is just impossible. I wonder why a part of me dares to consider it the most important thing in my life: isn't it a little bit too melodramatic? I've never even published anything. I'm not even that good at it. And nobody cares if I write or not.

God, crying for this is so stupid...But I feel like I've lost the love of my life. I feel like I've received the best gift possible and then told it wasn't for me. I'm trying so hard, trust me, so hard, telling me to have faith, to stay positive, to trust destiny, to never give up, to keep on smiling.

I may have made the worst mistake ever for an artist: I've become an over-controlling perfectionist. I just wanted to get better on a technical level and I did, I've learned so much when my point of view skipped a bit toward that direction, but now it's so tiring, so unnatural. No matter how much a try to make myself feel free and inspired, the very moment my thoughts run from my head to my hand, my mind has already seen how many useless things I'm going to say (things that add nothing to what I have already said), leaving my fingers with nothing meaningful to type. The real fun seems gone. When did I get like this? At 20 years old? After...what? 10 years? My "career" ends after just 10 years, ahah.

Yeah, I've "officially" started writing at 11, when my Italian teacher told me for the first time I have talent. And, like every beautifully naive beginner, writing was an amazing journey of my unlimited imagination. The only problems were the length and getting to the end of the novel, but there was going to be time to worry about it. Then I started my destroying experience in high school. I didn't have so much time to write and I wanted to grow technically, working on more sophisticated aspects of the art like building the suspense, developing the characters, dealing with the dynamics of the core conflict etc.etc. But this isn’t it. At that horrible time, writing became my main point of reference. It was a safe shore, a world in which I could experiment and grow as I pleased. It was tiring and frustrating, but it was a project nobody could take away from me. Again, getting at the end of the book wasn't my priority: the important was I was free to try. I decided to stop writing during the senior year in order to leave that hell with the best grades possible. I knew it was going to be difficult to get on track once I had plenty of time and nothing to do, it always is (I'm an extraordinary slow writer), but it turned out to be even harder. And it got harder and harder from that moment on, almost like the freer I got outside (more independent, stronger, more confident) the more chained I got inside (more controlling, more self-controlled). So the logic conclusion is that I've been using writing because I was feeling lost and now that I don't need it so much anymore...it must disappear.

The only thing in my life I have absolutely no doubt I truly want to do, and the only one I really can't.
Maybe I've just run out of things to say.
Maybe growing and being happy means to give up fantasy.
Maybe I’ll be happier if I let it go, maybe it was supposed to be like this.

I wish I could be listened and reassured as any other girl with a broken heart. I wish people asked me how my book is going on without getting bored after two seconds or claiming the subject is just too complicated. Yes, it's something I need to do alone and yes, I'm the first one who doesn't accept my life makes sense and my heart feels whole just thanks to it, but I wish someone understood how much this is important for me.

Come on, of course nobody gives a damn about it. What is "writing" for the world? I'm supposed to get my best feelings from kisses and sex, not from a pen and a white page. What is writing for my family, that the only thing has ever said to me is "don't spend too much time on that computer!" or "you'll just redo it again and again because in your heart you know you don’t really want to finish it". What is writing for people, people! People who have never spent days falling in love with the universe until hunger and pain and tiredness are just not that important to restrain them from keeping on typing; people who have never worked out the most freaking complex dilemma of a plot on the tiniest piece of paper in the shakiest bus just two minutes before they have to jump down back to school? What is writing for people who have never felt so close to a fictional character they could actually feel it physically right there by their side, laughing along them at the craziest of the ideas just accidentally thrown on the page; who have never cried for happiness just holding a printed version of a finished script in two incredulous hands? People who have never woken up smiling with the love of their protagonists still languidly running into their veins or who couldn’t go to sleep because the inspiration had decided midnight was the right time to show up? What is a “novel” for people who have never given everything of their energy, time, tears and soul into something without nothing an no one telling them their effort would be one day recognized?

I know I should have kept it shorter. I'm sorry. It's weird how I get emotional almost on nothing but this. Well, is the world going to miss another dumb teenager who jots down the same words everyone in this monolithic planet has already written thousands of millions of times? I certainly doubt it.

An I should really stop crying now.
Diomea Diomea
18-21, F
Jan 12, 2013