July 25, 2018

"Write about doing something you don't want to do."  

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I stare at the laptop; stare at the words that are like black marks on the white screen. They are correct grammatically, the sentence syntax is fine, there are no wavy green or red lines; all right, there are a couple, but then what should I do if MS word does not agree to that specific structure or does not have that particular word in its dictionary.

I rub my eyes closed; the phosphenes (MS Word does not recognise this word, either) are like shooting stars. I then open my eyes to see the same document with the same words and sighing, start reading again; searching for flaws, checking for errors, hoping that it makes sense.

That is when the battle starts, the dissuading voice starts its dance of dissent, 'it is too long and so will be boring,' 'it is too short, you are writing a story not a precise condensation of an event,' 'why do you bother, who reads what you write?' (This sentence to a loud staccato of rolling drum beats, if I pay close attention, I can making out the mocking laughter echoing off the drum sounds).

I switch the screen to something else to silence that voice, an opportunity for the contradiction to commence its slow waltz, 'it is alright to be afraid but then it would not do to surrender to it,' 'it is lovely to be appreciated but unless you put it up for public scrutiny, how would it get a chance to be read and appreciated?' 'falling and failing does not matter, labelling yourself as a failure does,' 'you must not quit.'

Soon it is a cacophony, of lilting music and loud raps, a roar and a whisper that do not die down and it is finally up to me to make the dreaded choice, "To post or not to post?"

It is not a dread that is rational, it is not a dread that would have far reaching consequences, it is not dread that is a matter of life and death. Yet, it is constant one for me, a faint one that accompanies me each time I open a document to write, it flows in the words I use to build my story and it is the perpetual worry that has me check and recheck everything I write (not that I get all the typos, but still).

It is a dread that I have to face each time I decide to post something I have written; a poem, a chapter of my story, a short story and at times, even a comment; a greater part of me clamouring not to bother posting it. It is a feeling I have to fight to make the decision.

Each time I do post, it is a victory of its own, of my determination to fight the voice pulling me back and a vindication of the voice that waltzes encouragement.

And each time I do not post, even though it is a failure, I sit back, think it over and put the story / update aside; hoping that someday I will fall in love with it again, enough to gain the courage to post it. 

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Word count 527