myself. First of all, I am just plain scared of writing, it simply makes me feel inadequate to put something on paper when I create so many mistakes and imperfections, which in turn has caused me to never write, starving me of much needed practice to improve. This has created much ire in me when I write, especially in English where one expects you to write excellently in your mother tongue but you still suck with nice little 65% in writing.
Most times I just use the computer as my crutch allowing autocorrect to clean up the shitstorm
I created, but I have grown so dependant on that crutch that my writing muscles have grown
atrophied so it hurts to walk now.
I despise being forced to work on the boring and unpalatable subject that mainly consists of
my writings thanks to our wonderful school system that is too fearful to give us anything that
might incite any passion or controversy. This has always given me a bitter taste that washes
over on all writing projects, taking away what little interest I could have had on them. To be
honest, I can’t remember the last time I wrote a text that wasn’t bland or devoid of any real
emotions.
The ironic part of my hatred of writing is the fact that I love to read with a ferocious passion.
In much of my early teenage years, I would escape from this world through the words of Tolkien,
Rick Riordan, Brandon Sanderson and so many more. With all these stories I have based
much of the foundation of my values and my morality, may it be anarchy with Ursula K. Le Guin
or communism with Karl Marx giving me quite a broad and deviant outlook on our world.
The artistry of the stories and the knowledge always made me quite salty when it came to
writing, always bumbling my way around with words.
Well, that concludes this blog post. I don’t really know what to say, but what do you want me to say?
There is no happy ending.
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