Fraud

"Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.... I still want to see it finally ritualized in print."  -Sylvia Plath


I know some may say that I am too young and too new to writing to think about having a pure motive...or too young to think about my writing being in print. I know, I know. I also know about the stinking pile of unpublished and mostly unfinished writing, taunting me about what a fraud I am.

I tried joining NaNoWriMo. I hadn't realized that I was manic then so everything was right, it was the perfect time to say what needed to be heard through writing! So when the high came down, the number of words per day declined, while I became depressed. It's sad because I truly believed in my story with my manic eyes. Now I am afraid to read it, afraid that perhaps once I see it, the brilliance that I thought it was would turn out to be nothing but a pile of shit.

I wish the people I used to ask were here, to hold my hand or slap me to reality. But the reality is they aren't. My life continued spiraling down, down, down...is anything I do worth it anymore? Is anything worth it if no one can see, no one can hear, no one can feel?