SELF REFLECTION
A Writer’s Rant Like Confession
From submitting my article to its first reader— and the drama behind it
Sometimes I feel a bit overwhelmed after I publish an article.
I want anyone who reads it to be able to experience it as much as possible. Sure, I am happy while I write, and this episode does not end with me feeling down or demotivated to write.
At the same time, I will say that I hate that feeling.
The submission feels right yet uncomfortable, as though it is missing a voice. I cannot not read it out to myself without wondering if it can be better expressed. Editing the published article feels like writing over poorly erased words, both the paper and words left looking much dirtier than before.
The feeling starts to creep up when I submit my post to a publication and overtures when I see the notification telling me that it is published. Sure, dissatisfaction can motivate you to get better, and that is wonderful. But in the present, it just feels borderline acidic.
I will be honest with you; all these waves began just a few days back when I published my eighth article.
Now, before you go berserk on me, I am aware that I am not a veteran, and I have just begun to write.
But I felt it, and it was new. The seven articles before this were just right; they were fun to write, too. That is how I thought it would be; either the words would feel right or get stuck in writer’s block.
I know, I need to stop speaking of it as though I have been fixating on this for ages.
But you know how it is — a minute in real life is a million in our minds.
Perhaps it is because I am struggling to diversify.
I used to write a little for myself, offline and on paper. Back then, it was always bizarre fiction and rarely poetry.
Starting in June 2021, apart from one incomplete idea, I chose to start over. I joined Medium — switching from pen and paper to the world wide web, making my work much more public. Before this, my go-to social platform was Instagram; penmanship came into play only with captions (20 words max.).
As I wrote fiction for the first time in almost four years, I noticed my writing style had changed quite a bit. The intent of writing earlier a descriptive voyage had now become a bit more poetic. This was probably because the past decade had changed my outlook on life. My inner cynic had become a pessimist who called himself a realist. My trust issues, coupled with my somewhat empathetic personality, had evolved enough to appreciate what people could feel and why, but still not trust the people themselves. My residual trust issues invited a possibility for all life, even elements and calamities, to be able to feel.
Now, I am no poet — Just a guy whose soul spoke in a language his mind had not used in ages. My confidence rattled as I tried to bridge the dissonance of my mind and soul.
Some days I would get closer to speaking poetry, but my soul would suddenly long for prose. It was like the urge to speak your native tongue because it has been ages, all the while you have started picking up on the local language. It tends to mess with you, breaking freshly built blocks.
The world does not usually have time to wait for you to speak the local tongue at an agonizingly slow speed. You tend to mix both languages to keep pace.
Stuck in that dissonance, I struggle to find whether, in the long run, picking up poetry will hurt my soul’s ability to retain or voice prose and vice-versa. From an aspirational point of view, I would also love to learn the languages of creative non-fiction and philosophy but, baby steps first.
Speaking my emotions, stories, and perspectives in a way that anyone can enjoy and connect is, after all, the writing dream. An outlet for you and a connection for anyone who reads.
I end my rant-like confession now, with the note that the void I felt vanished the moment my first reader clapped for my article. I was not seeking validation; I was genuinely happy that I helped with a good read.
Open letters, much like this one, tend to confess deeper truths that would not otherwise have come to light.
In the end, my resolve to work on myself and finding my voice has only strengthened.
Be it from experience, trauma, or intent, for a soul to mend and grow, it does bubble down to resolve.
Until next time, Ciao!
Hopefully, a bit more fluent in the languages of the universe.
