What I wish I could be versus what I am.

Writing has been elusive. Harder to think about topics than it is to write about writing, or the lack of.

The doubt in my voice shows my fear of acceptance.

There is comfort in knowing my voice may be drowned out by the ocean of content in this world.

Isn't there a reason for writing?

Why do I want to write so badly without anything to write about?

Where does the urge come from?

It must be legacy?

The fear of not being remembered? Fear of not being valued?

So with this, I break through; my first composition.

Technology makes it easier to write, but it isn't my voice; my real thoughts; myself on the "page."

My creativity is pacified by automatic responses to my ideas. Prevents me from putting the words together. But, then again, I've never been good at putting the words together.

Authorship is the last stronghold. Valuing human originality over artificial intelligence.

Funny how real, authentic writing has to contend with machines.

Funny how writing has to be so "broken" for it to stand out from the "perfectly" constructed automation.

How do I stand out?

Why do I care so much?

I guess it's the same as others. I want to be valued and compensated for that value.

But is that all there is in this world?

At my age, that's all I will see. Capital for my time and my energy.

What else do I have to trade?

My time and energy are the most valuable things I can offer anyone, or any endeavor.

That will be enough.

So, I will give it an honest effort.

Comments, feedback, and criticism will be my gauge, my measuring stick.

And when the feedback fades or is not favorable. I will stop. The universe will have spoken. And I will know my fate.

I care about these topics because I want to explore my thoughts, fears, motivations about writing. I want to be published. Validated. But I don't know how to expand without breaking the flow. The rhythm of the writing. The chopiness felt good to write. But I dont know how that style, if it is a style, will be received. That is the fear.

The style. I am in a moment right now. I don't want to lose it. The feeling of it. I think it may pass and not return on my next writings. A fluke. A one-hit-wonder. Fleeting. A shooting star. I know we all come and we all go. But how do I hold on to a moment. One like this. Where words, thoughts, style, are at a convergence. A crossroads.

So how do I write through fear? How do I face it without knowing if I will come out the other side a writer? Who makes that determination? I want to know how my voice is any different. To me it sounds the same as every other voice. What makes mine so special? Its not. I don't get praise for my writing. I guess it's cause I don't write except when its required for academic purposes. Even then it feels scripted. How many times, I have tried to add flare, style, to my writing. And it just becomes critized for not fitting the mold. Not being accepted for the humanity I try to portray on the page. I want to break the norms, so I can feel like I created something unique. My soul yearns to be unique. Different. Like, or I should say, unlike any others. Outside the box. Unconventional. Thoughts and subtle hints in the words that suggest I am not like anyone else. I am not.

So what makes my voice, mine? What are the qualities I don't see? Hear? Feel? Are there others? Has this been done before? My writing? Have I seen this style before and now I am a subconscious parrot regurgitating the words and calling it my own? Some say writing is therapy. I usually feel anxiety. It's amazing how easy heart surgery is compared to looking at a blank screen. Page. Whatever. With the intentions of putting meaningful words on it. Even as I write this I wonder if the punctuation matters. Am I doing it right? Does it matter? Is that just another way I am "breaking the mold?" Will I "get in trouble for not being a good steward of the profession?" Being published will not happen if the gatekeepers that be deem me unworthy of authorship. They may strike me down and demand I follow the rules or else. Their writing god is not my god. Did I go too far? Religion has no place in writing to the masses. Who am I to make this about anything other than the metaphor that I meant. It is hard. To stay on topic in a free writing moment like this. Where does it end? Where is the arc? How do I find my resolve. The so-what. Is this an introduction to my writing or a lesson on its own merit? Is there a moral to the story I'm trying to convey? I fear I won't know. If I work through these thoughts, then what is left of me? What is left of the point I'm trying to make. What is the point I'm trying to make? I guess that this free write will say something profound about me, as a writer, about my writing. Without the vulnerability of releasing it to the wild. I will never know. If you love something, you must set it free. If it loves you, it will return. But how does this return to me? Without feedback from the reader I won't know. I won't be validated. Or invalidated. That cut will hurt my soul, but it will be a necessary cut. A wake up call, to say I should have stayed in my place. In obscurity. To not quit my day job and stick to what I am good at. Or at least what society will pay me for. My 9 to 5 as they say.

But once I am comfortable writing with fear as my companion, it will not be fear as I know it. It will be something else. Won't readers get tired of reading about "my fears?" How will I know what else to write about? I don't know what else is inside me worth conveying. If this free write is even worth sharing. I am not a fountain of words, or feelings that I can put into words. Before long, it will be page after page of monotonous repetitive babble. Where is my muse then? My inspiration. Do I even care about anything enough to keep the spirit of this endeavor alive? How will I know?

Follow me and comment so I know if I should keep going.

I'll rely on your feedback. Am I a writer?