This one is going to be even more of a ramble than the others are, but if anyone I know or if anyone who happens to read this can relate in any way, then I think this would have been worth writing.
The thing about growing up talented is that you spend a majority of your childhood being praised. Of course, I can't really complain, I am incredibly lucky to have grown up so loved by the people around me. If it weren't for them, I would never have tried to grow my skill in writing at all.
But at the same time, not receiving any push back for a majority of my early forays into writing led me to think that maybe, just maybe, I was the most talented prodigy of my generation.
I've always suffered from delusions of grandeur in general, but when it came to writing, I had an incredibly inflated ego for it. Writing was the one thing I could rely on to be good at; I could be bad at everything else but I could never be bad at writing.
My career path was set for me since I was 10, I was going to make it as a writer, or I was going to kill myself trying.
Just like every gifted kid, entering college was the hardest reality check to my ego. Not only was I not as smart as I thought I was, but I wasn't as talented as I thought either.
The terrible thing was, I didn’t realize that I was bad at writing— I realized I was average at it.
Somehow that was a harder pill to swallow. Is a hard pill to swallow. Being mediocre feels like the final nail in the coffin of my writing career, and perhaps I am being too negative too early into it (given how I literally just graduated not even a year ago yet), but with how accessible writing has become, it's very difficult to find spark of hope in becoming a distinct writer.
Especially after meeting the batch of other young writers I was studying with. So many incredibly skilled writers in such close vicinity made it very difficult to feel confident in my own skill. I made friends with these people, and I'm incredibly proud of the achievements they earned over the few years I've known them, but I couldn't help but feel that seed of resentment grow within me like a parasite.
I am jealous of them. Jealous that they got recognition and I didn't, that I felt like they had many future compliments and praise to look forward to while I clung onto the few I had hoarded over the years.
It only got worse as I got older, and got to know younger writers who I saw as having even more potential than I did. I was jealous that they had discovered what worked for them earlier on while I was, and still am, struggling to find my footing in writing.
And then I realized that even people who didn't study writing like I did were still more talented and better at the craft that I had basically dedicated my entire life to.
Every time I think about why I haven't written anything I was proud of in recent history, or why I no longer wrote as much as I used to when I was younger, I always said it was because of my thesis. Because writing my thesis burnt me out, because writing in an academic setting stripped my love for it, because now that I'm meant to know better, I can't put out just anything.
But honestly, being jealous of everyone around me is probably much closer to the actual truth.
A logical solution to this envy would be to channel it into writing, I know that. I should use my jealousy as fuel to improve my writing, to work even harder and become even better. But how do I do that when I've felt like I've hit a wall?
Hell, if going through four years of studying didn't improve my skill, then what will? Do I need to become a tortured poet to reach the level of skill that my peers have?
I don't want to suffer to write. I don't want to believe that I have to be miserable to be a good writer. Yet, a fucked up part of me wishes I was abused, that I experienced a great pain that would scar me for life, that there was that visceral thing that drove me to express myself in a beautiful piece of prose, if only to experience the validation and praise that the people around me receive.
“Janine, you shouldn't stake your skill in writing to the validation of others,” but when I hear such incredible praise for everyone else, how else am I meant to interpret the lukewarm response I get from the people I respect?
What else am I supposed to think when I hear someone I know get praised to hell and back by a professor who couldn't even remember who I was when I approached him to talk literature?
I really do hate this part of myself, which I am now willing to admit is quite a big part of me. I hate it because it prevent me from being happy for the people I love. I tell them I'm proud of their achievements, and I'm happy that they are finally getting the validation they deserve, but inside I am burning with an envy so strong that I feel a part of myself wither away every time I read or hear about them.
I miss the writer I was who only wanted to let their imagination run free. I miss my ambition, and the dreams I had about becoming an author. Above all else, I miss my love for writing.
To my friends who don't write, thank you for your support when you find the time to read my stories. I feel incredibly selfish that I'm not satisfied with having your love, but know that I am grateful, and that you are the reasons I haven’t yet quit.
To my friends who do write, I'm sorry. I feel extremely lucky to have known all of you this early into what I can only see to be bright careers in writing. I don't lie when I say I am proud of what you all have achieved, and I only hope that reading this does not change your perception of me as a friend. This is something I know I have to work on, and I will try to overcome it…eventually. Haha.
And to the people who actually bothered to read all of this, thank you. Please don't give me advice, I don't want it. You know me, I’m a very defensive and stubborn person. All I ask is you continue to read whatever shit I decide to put out to the world, and I'll learn to be satisfied with that.