Made Of Fail

I want to write. But I just can’t seem to make anything show up on the page. Likely it’s due to what I’m feeling right now. Writing is so near and dear to me. It just seems right that I would be good at it. But I’m not. I’ve been writing for half of my life. And I suck at it. Almost ten years and I have made so little progress. The only significant difference between my work from ten years ago and now is that my vocabulary has gotten a bit better. It almost makes me want to stop writing forever. Perhaps go in search of something I can do somewhat decently. There must be something. At least, I would hope so. But I can’t stop. It would be like ripping an arm off and throwing it away. So what am I supposed to do? Keep writing crap or start spilling my own blood? Ugh. Where’d my pen go?

Damn it all to hell. I want to write. No, this isn’t writing. This is….ranting? Raving? Rambling? Reiterating my innermost thoughts? What is it? Self-pity? Yeah, that’s the one. Blogging? Journaling? All of those things.

Muse, why did you ever inspire me? Why did you do this to me? What is the good of being driven to do this, this thing that I love, when I do not have the skills for it? Then it just hurts. It’s like giving someone the undeniable urge to carve life size figurines and then letting them have access to a woodshop when they’ve never before even been in one. Who chose this gift for me? The drunken bitchy fairy from Ella Enchanted?

And why do so many people have to be so good at the one and only thing I want to do? People who have a writing career that’s lasted ten minutes can write a better piece than I can and I’ve been trying for ten years.

Shouldn’t people love what they are good at?

God, is this some sort of cruel joke because I haven’t been a good Christian? If I had been a good child, would I have fallen in love with something I was good at? Would I have been able to play the clarinet or paint a masterpiece? Would I have been smart? Or pretty? Yeah, I know. It’s not the man upstairs to blame for me being made of Fail. I probably just gobbled up a lot of Fail as a child. Or beat out all the Win during those “beat your head against the wall” tantrums from my youth.