Insecurities…

Since High school, there was only one thing in my mind when some one asked me ‘what do you want to do one day?’

Write…

I didn’t have much else… I wasn’t all that active, I wasn’t exceptionally clever, or gifted in anything particular. But I was good with languages. Afrikaans and English were my favourite, and best, subjects.

So I wrote. Silly poems, useless flash fictions, I even finished one Afrikaans novel.

And people tell me its good…

But is it?

I’m not writing this post for reassurance, I just want to put my fears out there…

What if I’m not good enough?

What if this one big dream of mine, getting published, doesn’t happen?

What if it does happen, and it’s not so great?

I’m not sure if there is much more to me than wanting to be a writer… For the last five years, that has been my identity. For the last five years, I was the weird girl in the coffee shop with a tattered notebook, writing like her life depends on it. And it does…

I don’t know if there will be much left of me if I don’t get to be a writer…

Writing is my therapy. It helps me forget, it helps me remember, it helps me get the blackness out of my head.

If it were to be taken away from me…

I’d be fucked…

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