Inadequate Flowers

a writing by Auden A

I started reading again. It is only the 16th of January and I am already on my second book for the month! It is wonderful. Both these books are written so beautifully that they infected me with a need to write again. They planted seeds in my mind which pop into flowers throughout the day. I need to write them down and they are distracting me from my work. But this need is always followed by the sinking feeling of disappointment: I am not good enough. I do not write like Sylvia Plath or any of these great literary people, so why am I writing? I don’t feel like it is something I have a claim to, I am not good at it. I feel inadequate and talentless. I feel as if anyone who reads any of my writings would think that they are silly. Juvenile. A child’s thoughts and words. Sometimes when I write I find treasures; a phrase or a metaphor that I am almost proud of. That is why I want to keep on writing, to hunt for these treasures. But how do I know if my treasures are valuable or if they are only children’s toys?

Either way, I am scared that these seeds will die or run out and I will wander around in a desert again. A drought of words. In the beginning it was hard, it felt like I was losing a part of myself, but then as the years passed, I started to accept that maybe I am not as much a writer as I thought. I reasoned that the logical processes I had to implement in my day to day work has spread to the rest of my brain. They picked up all the scattered words and ideas and neatly packed them away into boxes. All the A’s and B’s were where they should be, ready to be used in the “right” way. Nothing that can lie around and accidentally arrange themselves into a new idea, nothing that can catch fire in the middle of the night and cause me to scribble it down in the dark before it fizzles out again. My mind was empty and yet it was filled at the same time. The creative clutter that was always lying around got replaced with to-do-lists and horrific worries that consumed any idea that dared try to show itself. Eventually there were no words left and I had nothing to make new ones with. I accepted that my life forward did not include this part of myself, that this part of myself did not exist anymore. I was too busy anyway, and when I compared myself to my friend I knew that I will never again write like I used to.

I am scared that this is just a drizzle before the next drought, but perhaps if I keep on reading I can keep on gathering seeds. I just need to water them with my own experiences. Next, I have to work on cutting out the weeds and trimming the trees. I never express things exactly the way I want to. The right words are never there, the images get distorted when I translate them into metaphors, and I do not put enough effort into editing, because I do not know what is wrong and what is right and if it this new garden is even worth the trouble in the first place.

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