I am colorless.

 

I wish you could see me right now, hunched over my laptop and enveloped in my Dad’s blanket, loudly and obviously typing out this nonsense.

A picture of frenzied contentment.

I suppose.

Frankly, I’m worried about something.

I’ve got it in my head that I’m a poor and colorless writer. A simple and shallow one, if I may be so barefaced.

This means I’m a bore. This means I’m a dull and tiresome individual. These days, I think I may be able to substitute my initial fear of abandonment with this inexplicable feeling of mediocrity.

The idea hurts. I don’t want to be colorless. There is no advantage to toiling over proper grammar if the sentences won’t ignite some spark of genuine emotion.

I don’t think there is a point to flawless syntax if the writing lacks personality.

Perhaps I try too hard. Or perhaps it is the exact opposite; I don’t push myself enough.

I’ve heard professors tell me several different things. That you may never really find your literary voice, that it is something that will continue to evolve as you keep at it. Or, one should never make this an enduring endeavor so as to avoid coming off as contrived.

Meh. All I know for certain is that a tiny voice in the back of my mind constantly whispers, “You’re not good enough.”

But to what end or for what purpose, I’m not entirely sure yet.

I just feel inadequate, like a child shuffling around in an adult’s shoes.

 

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