Member-only story
An Uninteresting Writer
I don’t know how to do better
It’d be nice if I were a better writer. I could write stories and things that people can relate to.
I’m so hung up about what to write about, how to make my stories blow up, how to be successful. I’m ignoring that this is supposed to be a release.
A release from the pressures of the world.
Making sure that everything is okay with everyone. Trying to make sure that I can please people.
I spend a lot of time trying to make everyone the priority in my life. I shoulder everyone’s burdens and complaints. In some ways, this is one of the things I like most about myself. In others, it holds me down to no end.
It prevents me from giving my full attention to the one person I promised should have it.
It clouds my decisions.
I just want to be able to make the people around me happy.
Writing is supposed to be that vehicle. Something that allows me to vent my emotions and, at the same time, allows me to make sure that I can take care of the people around me.
I need to have some income, but I’m fortunate to be in a place where just a little is enough. I don’t need to be the most successful, I just want to give myself that availability.
