This does not, however, mean that I plagiarise.
I say I’m not a ‘real’ writer in the sense that I’m not very good at all. I can spin pretty tales out of words sometimes, but after the initial blindness resulting from the dazzles and sparkles, you can blow on them and they will darken and crumble, just like dust, just the like the ashes they really are.
I like to fancy myself as a writer, but I know none of it is real. In my mind, it sounds wonderful. In my mind, I imagine myself making razor-thin scratches on great blank pages, watching ink blots splatter and smear as my words bleed on the paper.
I imagine making people laugh, cry, think.
I imagine too much.
It’s not like that, not at all.
Instead it’s a race against time, typing or writing the torrent of thoughts so fast that my fingers are cramped afterwards. It’s feeling empty, so drained that one little flick of the thumb could send me spiralling away.
I’m not a real writer because I actually hate writing.
I just write because I have no other way of getting the voices out of my head. If I don’t grab a pen or pull the keyboard towards me, the words and thoughts will build up and I will feel like drowning, suffocating beneath the tide of my own imagination.
It’s a pity that my words are never creative enough, never beautiful enough. It’s a pity that after I write I don’t even read them again, not even to edit.
It’s a pity that…oh, who cares.
I’m not a real writer because I suck.