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There’s A Little Bit of Trouble

Then I knew what the trouble was.

I needed experience.

How could I write  about life when I’d never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die?

~Esther; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

I was reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and I came upon these sentences. Why was I reading? Why was I reading so many books? I want to write someday. I’ve been seeing the words being sewn into sentences, then into paragraphs. I had scenarios and some nice music was even playing at the back, even if I cannot include that to what I write. It was legendary in my mind. I could even smell the ending of my story.

And then I write. And everything seems wrong. And parts were not coming together. And then I realize that I cannot write at all. I’m no good as a writer as I am no good as a person.

I thought reading can supplement what I lack in experience, and they do. They let me in on the writer’s out of this world stories but still not enough. I now know, that If I just feed my hungry mind with reading and less experience, I would just end up copying what I read. Consciously and unconsciously.

That sucks.

Kthnxbye. I’ll read on.