NaNoWriMo is swiftly coming to an end (two more days! WHAT?!?!!), and I’m feeling some hefty weight on my shoulders. For the past 28 days, I’ve written my butt off on the second Exposed book and managed to reach the elusive 50,000 word mark in a matter of 19 days despite a week of extreme low. What’s more, the first book has now reached 2.6K reads and 200 likes on Wattpad, which is pretty impressive for someone who’s been on the site for less than a year and a half.
I should be damn proud of myself, shouldn’t I?
Well, I’m not.
I’m only 24 and I still have my “whole life ahead of me,” but deep inside, I feel like I’ve failed. I’m never satisfied with how much I write or the content of my writing because I’m always pitting myself against others. Naturally, it’s going to make me feel like crap. And if you add lack of support for what I want to do, that lowers my confidence immensely.
I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong or how I can appease the few people in my life when my mind’s swirling around. The most important thing is my health and I should be doing what makes me happy, right? Writing makes me happy; it busies my mind and keeps it away from negative thoughts.
Yet it’s not enough and it makes me feel like I’ll never be enough for anyone. Being a depressed writer is so cliché, but I didn’t choose to be this way; it chose me. I just hate that my coping mechanism, writing, is frowned upon. If it keeps me alive, then there’s really no harm in me constantly writing.