This is not a happy post. It’s not a post born out of misled passion. This post is the result of painful reflection that I have done. See sometimes, (not often I must admit) I ask God why I ever started writing. Why I ever fell in love with just letting my mind flow unto a page. From the title of this post, you can probably guess what I’m talking about. If you can’t, it doesn’t matter because I’m going to talk about it anyways. There’s nothing worse than realizing you’re mediocre at something you love. Now, I don’t want people messaging me, commenting about how spectacular my writing is. I don’t need to hear all that. This is not a plea for attention or appreciation. This is a somber reflection. My dream of writing one incredible book hasn’t died, but I will admit that it is on its last embers. I’m just really frustrated with where I am as a writer. I’ve been in a rut anytime I’ve tried to write anything for months. I’m even struggling to complete this piece about my struggle to complete pieces! Now, people that know me, know my stance on intimate relationships. I wonder if how I’m feeling about writing right now is how people feel when they’re in a bad place in a relationship. You hate the significant other so much yet you love them so much. You can’t stand to be in their presence but you don’t want to stop. Am I right? Because sometimes I feel like throwing my laptop at the wall because I want to be as far away from WordPress as I can. But I’m scared of giving up. I’m scared of my mind letting go and saying, “that’s it Soala, no more for you,” ( I feel like this is one of those statements EVERY child has heard at some point). Is that how it feels to be hooked in an abusive relationship? I used to play the guitar, I gave up on that. I used to sing in the choir (contrary to what you might think from hearing me sing now, this is true. this is factual. I am not joking) and when puberty stole my angelic voice at the tender age of 13 and left this gruff, husky, sometimes-sounding-like-it-needs-baba-blue one, I gave up on singing. Writing has always been my way of expressing myself. Realizing that I’m mediocre at it has been tough because what do you do when you’re mediocre at something you love?
Now, before anyone says otherwise, I’ll give evidence for why I have come to conclude that I’m a mediocre writer. I won’t say anything about page views (which are nothing great and will actually help my case if I put them here). I’ll just talk about response and perception. I’ve been writing publicly for a while now. I believe I started this blog early in 2014. A lot of the people that know me, know that I write. But I’m never referred to as a writer, I’m never thought of as a writer and this holds true for many of the circles I’m in. I know who my peers think of as good writers, and I’m not part of that elite group of people. It’s a harsh truth, but it is what it is. And this is not jealous or spiteful, the logical reason behind me not being regarded as one of those writers is simply because my writing isn’t as good as their writing is. But still, realizing that your writing is mediocre hurts.
A writer I admire a lot once told me (if you somehow read this, hey!) that I have a voice that stands out. That meant (and still does) a lot to me. I don’t think I will ever be bold enough to stop writing. And hey, mediocre writers write famous books every once in a while. It’s all gucci.
P.S I’m using the word ‘mediocre’ to describe my writing in relation to other writing I read.