Finding the Approval in Yourself

I feel lost, like I've been laid to rest, but the coffin isn't closing shut, only now I get the feeling that I'm sitting in newly earthed dirt, which is filling the pine box of my life. I've never felt so empty, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing of a bad thing. I've been keeping my writing and reins to a minus I, prepping for this upcoming writing challenge, but the more I train myself to think originsll ideals, the more I see the sad, sad truth that nothing I'm discovering in my notes is turning out to be original. I'm still hung up on my failed novel, especially the heart-wrenching loss of it, because that wasn't necessarily my ticket,it wasn't even set in the proverbial stone to be published, but it was an opportunity. So now I've become a more humbled writer, one that sits and ponders a while before placing everything out for the world to see, waiting for personal approval. I'm taking my time,letting ya elf learn the values of patience, and the humility of horrid editing. I tdo wish I was able to go back in time,and take better care of myself, and my belongings, I'd be a different person by now. I'd be someplace further in my career, but opportunity turns up around every core er, and NaNoWriMo has become the makeshift savior of my follies in writing. I failed the worst way a writer ever could fail, and my downfalls are going to be the blemish on my writing career, if it ever we're to launch off the ground. I'm not lazy, just defeated, and I'm feeling the pressure now to be professional. I have to make myself a stronger person,to survive in this cutthroat business of one. I've never had to think of myself as anything kore than some piggish amateur that would never catch a break, but I wrote because I loved it,mans I happened to not mind the idea of being this wretched little urchin my whole lie. Then maturity hits, li beams down onto your youthful smile,and turns it into a wrinkled mess. You lose that invincibility as pains from all over the body flare up, and you wonder how the hell you ever felt so good beforehand. I'd fear the pains I'd truly feel if I ever did work a day in my life. People have been telling me what to do with my life for years, but they've always fail to dissuade me from doing what I've always wanted to do: write professionally, even if the world snubbed me for it, I would prevail as a writer. Never have I loved something more in this world than writing. Books have always been my escape from the audacity of human contact. Granted, I'm older, less awkward than I was when I was younger, and I've soared mountains of hardships and controversies since coming back down to earth in the realization that I'm aging fast. I knew I am getting older, hell, getting old, and I've always looked towards it excitedly, because I've always wanted to be independent, to do what I wanted,without impediment. Today, I'm just another guy who writes in a world of people who claim to be writers, but not many who actually write. Call me malicious for saying if, but I feel I have the drive, even when I'm down, I've done more with myself than most writers do in a year. I'm not perfect, nor would I want to be, hence writing would be so dull if it were perfectly crafted every single time my fingers hit keys. No, I'm not saying I'm better than other writers, nor does this mean I'm worst. I try to stay humble, but when I look around, I know I'm on another level, and that's playing without a handicap. I'm arrogant, but writers are meant to be arrogant. We are the embodiment of narcissism, although we are at times socially awkward. We all think alike, the same sort of personality dictates us to be who we are. We think we are the best, but are humbly dismissive of our personal achievements. We haunt the same kind of places, talk with the same kind of people, we hold outlives to superior standards, even though it is more a mask than some blue-blooded tie-ins. We lose our sanity because we can't stop functioning for one brief moment in-between. If we are not working, we're thinking of working. If we are working, we are already on a different plain than the voyage we've already disembarked. We are never stopping, like a machine set to go, we never finish ideas that matter, and the ones we do finish are just to wet the palette until the next big idea. Writers know what I'm talking about, because it is that psychosis, that mental strife that leads towards that grand breakdown, which keeps us for the normal life. We want to do it the way we know best, because history is on our side, history is what we live every single day. We know our ideas aren't new, nothing is new, no! Our craft is to make the old and mundane, fascinating yet again, like childhood wonder that keeps people interested in continuing on, to teach them in ways that keep them coming back for more. Our job is to be spectacular. Quite some claims to live up to every day. Books are investments, and the readership that become our audience is the payoff. Even if the capital doesn't fit the bill of work, it's a pleasure to see people admire you from afar, and see worth in your creation. Even if you don't personally see it. Sue, I'm down that my best chance of being a published author are over, but I move on, I feel that pain, but it don't let it become my everything. I push past the aggravation, and the time lost, and plan out my next amazing feat of authoring. I hate that I've failed on such a grand scale, but I take the notions with I've been lucky to fail at such a stage most writers wished they could've reached on their first attempt. I count my loess, and look towards NaNoWriMo. Thank you for reading my blog.