I hate writers and writing

I hate hate hate it.

I have never wanted to be a writer.
I have always wanted to be a writer.

I want to write, and be read so that people get the value of my message. I want them to know that their experience is real and righteous and valid and free. I want to share that humanity with them, growing together in a glorious melange of mess.

But writers are a mess, and writing is a mess.

I don’t want to be one more writer. Writing the same thing written before because duh, my experiences are human. Utterly commonplace and ordinary, regular as everyone else. I don’t want to be that self-focused inwardly looking yet somehow show-off of supposed writing prowess. The world doesn’t need one more superior sumbitch tellin’ us all about their insignificant visions of some ethereal feeling on life, the universe and everything.

I don’t want to occupy some sort of moral high ground based on my sense of self twisted by a role, an ideal, an expectation of what “writer” is. I don’t want to bear my soul in the realest and most honest of ways to be rejected. Told it isn’t distracting enough to be picked up let alone respected enough to be read with an open mind and heart.

I don’t want to be read and find out that no, I’m not being understood and in fact misunderstood, and in fact understood less for all the more words I pump out, trying to find just the right way to be believed.

I want to be the kind of writer who doesn’t care if she eats tomorrow because writing is more important than that, but I’m scared. That level of failure yet success in the same breath would be all the harder to accept for once again seeing that being a writer or not has little to do with all that.

I already have to fight the battle to accept in myself that so few people like me and yet I am counseled to keep being myself, praised for being “strong” when all it is, is an inability to be someone else who could be more liked, heard, respected or celebrated. It’s not strength, it’s just being trapped.

I don’t want to be trapped by the idea of “writer”, the idea of my place as that person who writes without praise. Because I already am that person. I already write without praise. If I do that in front of the world then that same failure magnifies, intensifies, and becomes real. Then it is my efforts, my writing or my insipirations to write that really are failing, and not just the failure of never starting. Then, it would be real.

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