More than a year has passed since I began my writing adventure in June last year. In that time I have written dozens of articles. So much so that this is my two hundredth article.
While I was writing in the last few weeks, I wanted to re-read what I had written in an old article. And what did I see! I had written it in the first month of this year. I couldn't believe it. Months have officially passed since then, but it doesn't feel like it. The day I celebrated New Year's Day seemed like a month or two ago.
But what happened in those two hundred writing sessions? I went through a lot of things that could have killed my enthusiasm for writing, but there were just as many reasons that kept me going.
The biggest thing I notice about my writing is that I have reduced the amount of literary or general cultural knowledge I impart. Because I only write on my own site now. Knowing that I don't have as many readers as I used to, I want to focus on what I feel. I use it as an online diary that I write every week. I like this state of being, so I write as I feel.
During this time I finished writing my book, but I could not finish it thoroughly. I started writing stories, but after a while I lost interest. On the other hand, we started reading books as a group and have been doing so for almost six months. I hope to regain the inspiration and desire to produce my fiction in a similar way. All my life I have been exhausted by the tides of my mind and heart in these matters.
Everyone's life changes at least once every six months, for better or worse. And this longer period of time has given me a lot of them. Sometimes incomplete, sometimes wrong, sometimes hopeful, sometimes joyful... It has given me all of them, but the feeling that I have not progressed is always the most heartbreaking. I know this is not the case, I am sure of it, but people tend to dream of the negative. It is a habit that I cannot give up completely.
Photo by nikko macaspac on Unsplash
I don't know how it will happen, I don't know when it will happen, but I can't stop feeling the need for a new beginning. I don't know what I want, but sometimes my head hurts so much... I think writing up to three hundred is unbearable. But it should have come from within, it shouldn't have felt like an obligation.
I didn't have the hardest job in the world. I didn't have to prove anything to anyone. I did it for myself and I've continued to do it and I'm grateful for that. When I look back, I am happy that I created something and left something behind in one way or another. But there is a curse on human beings: The sense of accomplishment is fleeting.
What I write, what I deal with, all has an expiry date. What is written should either be taken up again and again over time - and I have done that, but I got bored when I realised I could not go beyond similar sentences - or it should be continued by constantly adding new ones. Sometimes it is exhausting. When there are two hundred of them, it feels tiring, repetitive, inefficient, written and drawn to fill in the gaps. Is it greed, insatiability, complacency, indifference or an attitude against contentment? It is difficult to determine what it is, or when it takes what form.
If only I had the power, if only I could glimpse my future, perhaps through my dreams, perhaps through a form of life I have never imagined. If I could see what I am, where I am, in what state I am... Would I see three hundred or reach four hundred? Would I write for the rest of my life, as I have always wanted to, and would I look back on my writings and laugh when I reached five hundred? If I continued like this every week, fifty-two articles in a year... One hundred in two years.
Maybe I'll give up and find another way. Maybe my hands won't even reach three hundred, but the next thing you know I'll be thirty-one, thirty-two.
Comments