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For some time now, I have felt talentless in terms of creative writing. I promise you that I am the king of self-doubt, or what do we call it now? Ah, yes, imposter syndrome. I have second-guessed everything I have written because, in my mind, it is not humorous enough, not witty, or artistically written. When my writing friends send me pieces to edit or critique, I wonder why they hold me in such high regard.
“I started writing because of you.” “You inspire me.”
As how? Praise coming from people I think are infinitely better writers than I am. Sometimes, I wonder if they do this to mock my sudden loss of ability to write. I know it is mostly my mind, but I wonder. I remember a friend asking to put out a collaborative piece, and I felt insulted on her behalf. I came up with fresh excuses daily until she gave up. Ironically, I crafted the most tasteful lies daily, but I could not write one creative sentence.
I never run out of excuses. Each one is more creative than the last. I have told people that I write from my heart, but I was not being entirely truthful. I have channelled pieces that emerged from the deepest parts of my loins, born out of the most lustful desires, and I have also written poems that were forged from the relief I felt in the loo.
The most recent excuse was me highlighting how writing for work has dulled my creative pen. Maybe I am just lazy, tired, and uninspired. I guess I will write whenever I feel up to it. In some way, I am enjoying the feeling of disappointing my friends and people who want me to write again. I did not appoint them anyway.
