See here’s the thing, there are people everywhere in the world fighting for a change, for a difference, fighting to save humanity. And that’s all well and good, but then there are writers.

A specialized breed of ruin, a deadly addictive drug.

Sure one could ask what the cuss they do for the world. I can tell you this, they kill trees. They bury students in dry immobile states of constant stress and depression.

But know what else they can do? They can keep me up all night. Make it so my mind never stops whispering to me. Make it so it feels like I’m drowning in ink and can never shut out that click click clicking of the keyboard.

Writers. Arguably the most talented, frustrating, simultaneously strangle-worthy yet kiss-worthy people on the planet.

Every time I finish a book good or bad I wonder how?

How on earth does anyone figure this out? How does anyone think of this? How does this happen? How are they real? How do they do this? How? How? How?

Then I think why.

Why can’t I do this? Why am I not doing this? Why am I not good enough? Why isn’t this happening? Why? Why? Why?

It’s a constant cycle: how, why, how, why, how, why? Like a broken record playing over and over and over.

I’ve read most of my life away and yet I still can’t see those plot holes coming, I can’t predict it, yes that’s a good thing. But then I can’t even seem to think of ones coming at me on my own how am I supposed to write anything that even measures up in the slightest.

Sure good artists steal but that only gets you so far. So what if some people tell you you’re good, their obligated to tell you that, cause the worlds about making people feel good about themselves, especially when you’re a young volatile developing teen yeah?

But then I see other people’s writing, it doesn’t even need to be published or personal-universe shattering. And it starts it all over again.

How? Why? How? Why? How? Why? Until it feels like I’m going to go mad.

I’m thinking yeah I’m good enough but then I read a bone shaking book. And the little disembodied voice whispers, are you good enough? Am I good enough? It echoes, like a museum display no one came to see.

Then I’ll read something written by someone like me unofficial, young, and just writing for the sake of writing. And that disembodied voice gets louder, No you’re not good enough are you? Just one lousy kid playing pretend.

I recently finished a book that for some reason shook me to my foundation. I hate analyzing literature but this one hit points that are incredible and leave me knee deep in cement thinking, this proves it, it officially proves it, writers are amazing and will probably be the fryers of my emotions. Yes the book had some stand out flaws but still. How?

I’m one sad little mind grasping at something I’m not even sure is mine to grab. One out of hundreds thousands millions. Every time I’m done with a book or story I’m left raw and wrathful and insecure yet I continue to do it to myself because I don’t think I could bare to be without it.