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Maybe
Saturday, March 8, 2014 at 4:18 AM
I can't find my voice. I've been searching for it ever since I've decided that I have actual talent for writing. For needed validation, a few people have told me that I, as a matter of fact, do.... Although I kept on doubting it. Now, what should I do with it? "Believe it," someone said. That was momentarily uplifting, and I tried; I kept on trying.
I wanted to write for children. But I didn't want to downgrade my writing to match up the stereotyped intellect of the youth. Before even starting to do so, I began to question myself again. Was I old enough to write for children? Would I be able to raise a distinction between childhood and adulthood? What kind of wisdom can I impart to the young, who are a curious bunch with an unquenchable thirst for learning? And then I wanted to write about love. But... There is always a but. There is always something that doesn't add up to the equation. Did I experience enough about love to write about it? Is it really okay to romanticize pain from love, for this is the kind of writing I feel I can portray effectively? Is it okay to write about love, only to shape it into a tragedy? I don't know what to write. I was never sure of anything, anyway. I lacked purpose. Why do I write in the first place? Is it for my own satisfaction? Is it to give a voice to those incapable of language, but have so much to say? Is it to ease myself of troubling thoughts? Or is it simply all of the above? I don't know. I don't know. I'm lost. |
“In most books, the I, or first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference. We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking. I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience. Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me. Perhaps these pages are more particularly addressed to poor students. As for the rest of my readers, they will accept such portions as apply to them. I trust that none will stretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to him whom it fits.”
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