This is the kind of post that should have been reserved for at least 50 posts down the line, when I had reached a point of exhausting the options of possible topics – yet here it is. I started writing this a while ago and then I found myself enjoying the exploration of my thought process. Here I am, an amateur writer with nothing to show but a week old blog. One day I hope to have a more extensive body of work. Has anyone else tackled with wanting to write with flare and style but then coming across as pretentious and confusing? Here are some disjointed paragraphs examining my thoughts:
I have a specific writing style. While it can be advantageous to have a signature style to leave your mark, I want to delve into the open field of versatility. I want to be a chameleon in my writing. I want to explore the various personalities of expression. I want to let go of myself and be different people. However, when my writing is not my own it’s a cheap copy. It’s a mockery of the writer I admire and a stain to my own natural ability. I can only write what I know. I’m more adventurous in my words and subdued in my storyline. My stories are more about prose and less about plot.
A piece of mine that is deadline inspired as opposed to a topic I’m passionate about is worthless.
Everything that I have ever wanted to say has existed so half formed but so persistent in my mind that I can never find the words I really want to say when my explanations tumble clumsily out of my mouth. Something so important to me suddenly sounds so worthless and trivial. I want to withdraw even more into myself when I’m struck with the sound of my own banal excuses. I have to agonise, concentrate and suffer over each rewrite of each sentence until I can express myself. Even then, I am never fully satisfied. At which point do I let my writing flow freely and when should I grapple with my words until they are more refined, polished and satisfying? Please don’t ask me to explain myself because I will never be able to find the words when I need to. My silence is not meant to offend or come across as indifference. I only say nothing because I don’t know what to say.
All the words that I eloquently string together get lost in the abyss of my mind. They float in the open spaces. Some are wandering, others are meandering and most are dancing amongst my thoughts and ideas. Then – in a sudden flash of a moment, they are lost. They are consumed by time and disappear, never meant to form the sentences that they were supposed to. They never fulfil a purpose. They are replaced by secondary attempts to retrieve them. The words are never quite the same. The ideas suddenly become stagnant when faced with the prospect of becoming imprinted on a page or a screen.
I am discouraged by my vocal ineptitude. I do not possess the art of persuasion. I cannot incite the same level of excitement in another when I fall deeply into a movie, book, a quote or philosophy. No matter the literary or cinematic prowess that the content at hand possesses, I cannot bring a voice to the impact it has made. The charming, the witty and the likeable bring out the envy within me. I will stick to being a wallflower.
A quote from the movie The Perks of Being a Wallflower: