People that know me know that I’ve only taken to writing stories in the past few years. Even if people tell me I have a gift for being a wordsmith, it does not mean that I am in any way a good writer. Compared to the people I know, people that have been writing years, perhaps decades before me, day after day, I am but a small flickering candle against their more dedicated experience.
It’s true. I want to write. I hope that maybe one day I can finish a novel which I feel proud to call my own, but for people that want to make a career out of building universes, worlds and the people that live in them on paper; hoping to finish a story is but a forgotten speck in their rear view mirror, as they speed mercilessly ahead, trying the best to reach their aspirations and ambition. These are the ones who I admire and respect as people, a quality I hold true unlike any other.
So I keep writing, even if not with the same fervour and passion as I have seen other writers commit to. I walk at my own pace, enjoying the small dream that I hope will one day be part of whatever achievements I set out to collect in my lifetime. If not, well then I like to think that carrying a small black sketchbook, so I can write all my sudden crazy plot ideas wherever I go, looks pretty damn cool.
Hey, it can’t hurt to be a little vain.