me as a writer: Oh no I can’t write that, somebody else already has
me as a reader: hell yes give me all the fics about this one scenario. The more the merrier
This one is so hard to accept. Reblogging to knock that into my brain.
Me as a writer: I feel like I’m repeating myself, I’ve already used that theme, I’ve already written that kink, that other character uses that speech pattern so this one in another fandom can’t, I feel like I’m writing predictable things,
is this different enough from that other thing I wrote,
are people filling out bingo cards by my work? :sobbing:
Me as a reader: oh hell yeah this hit the spot exactly, I hope this writer has written 20 more just like it
I once received a DM comprised of just that sentence. Nothing else. No constructive criticism or any reason as to why this person clearly agreed with my own view of myself.
For someone who has never told anyone in their real life that they write anything, reading something like this from an anonymous user only solidified in my mind the fact that this person was right.
I’m not a good writer.
After an embarrassing amount of minutes passed, in which I thought about deleting every story I ever posted, I decided to delete the message instead. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean I could delete the feelings it caused or change the fact that I’m not a good writer.
Two weeks went by and I didn’t write anything, let alone post. Then I received a comment on a story I had posted three years prior, one I’d written after a death in our family. The comment read, “Thank you for sharing this heartfelt story. I really needed this. I just lost my mom and this really got me today.”
I stopped thinking about being a good writer after that. I thought instead, “what if I had deleted my stories and that one person three years later hadn’t read it that day?”
Here’s what I realized: no one is a good writer.
Good means to be approved of, but stories aren’t created from approval. They’re built from life experiences, feelings, and emotions Therefore, the impact of anyone’s story isn’t good or bad. It’s a million other things.
Heartfelt.
Sad.
Funny.
Inspiring.
Romantic.
So to all the story writers out there, hold your head up, write what is in your heart, and never doubt that there isn’t at least one person out there that needs to read your story.
So, no.
We’re not good writers, but why would we want to be?
Holy shit did I need to read this today
Never doubt that there isn’t at least one person out there that needs to read your story.
Also worth noting: If you must take “good” to mean “talented” or “skilled,” well… they may or may not be right. But either way, the way to become skilled is to write more. All the time. Constantly. The worse people tell you you are, the more you must write.
Hone your craft, with a whetstone made of spite if necessary.
Abled people: how’re we suppose to live and sustain ourselves if we are unable to work??? How does the government expect us to live like this???
Disabled people:
Abled people: we’re expected to stay inside and isolate ourselves all the time??? That’s no vacation, that is terrifying, im stressed out staying inside all the time
Peaking early and feeling like an eternal failure ever since
Remembering what it felt like to be motivated and at the top of your game and you could do ten things at once and cared so much, but now it’s a struggle to keep up with anything
~depression~
~functional depression~ so you feel like you are faking it
Holding a mediocre job and feeling unfulfilled but feeling like you aren’t good enough to do anything else
Being book smart but struggles with social skills and communication with others.
Feeling like you are the worst person on earth for making a mistake or not knowing something
gifted kid burnout things that no one seems to talk about:
the raw panic of hearing about your potential, positive or negative
a weird brand of imposter syndrome where you genuinely think you’ve fluked your way through every success and you’re gonna be Exposed as a Fraud
never having learned how to study and having no idea where to start now that you need to
reading college level books as a kid but being basically illiterate now
dismissing your struggles as irrelevant because other people have it harder and i should be smart enough to handle this
feeling like you’ve lost all control over your life (maybe manifesting into depression, anxiety and disordered eating in a grasp for control over something)
being unable to decide on a career path because you could have had everything, only to watch those opportunities disappear as you fail to commit
i know it can come across as reading too much into things sometimes but i’m such a sucker for the the unspoken aspects of a relationship dynamic. stuff like “i know it’s them, i’d recognize that stupid hair/face/distinctive article of clothing anywhere” implying that the speaker has observed the subject of their description long and regularly enough to accurately recall their physical appearance, or “i made you coffee, just how you like it” implying that they’ve not only spent long enough time together to learn and memorize their preferences and habits, but actually cared enough to make the effort to do so
one of my favorite fucking feelings in the world is when you’re having a discussion with somebody about literature and themes and storytelling and etc or even just like, your feelings, and as you’re rambling on about the interpretation of something-or-the-other you have this lightbulb moment where two ideas connect in your head all of a sudden and you couldn’t have done it without the context of another person there and you both get so excited about this new theory you’re developing
like. collaboration. trust. complexity. awakenings. this shit isn’t just analysis, it’s art.
When people ask, “How can I tell if someone is disabled or just lazy?” I think about my parents.
My parents have known me my whole life. When they’re not actively contemptuous of me, they do seem to be somewhat aware of my general personality and character. In one of his nicer moments, my dad has called me “sweet-natured.” They can tell that when I make them a surprise breakfast or lunch that I enjoy being helpful and doing nice things for people.
They know from watching me grow up that I have always had trouble keeping my room clean, getting homework done, and keeping my desk tidy at school.
The longest I can push myself past my limits is about nine months. Then I collapse and end up less functional than I was before I pushed myself. This has been a pattern throughout my middle and high school years. I would go to public school for about a year, and then collapse and have to do the rest of my education at home. My work history follows this pattern, too.
I once sat in a therapy session with my dad to talk about the constant struggle we were having at home because he wanted me to help out more and do better in school. When he asked me why I didn’t do things, I broke down in tears, because I couldn’t explain it. “I just CAN’T. I want to, and I CAN’T.” Nobody listened.
My mom asked me why I don’t do things, and I said, “I just can’t. I sit there for hours trying to convince myself to do things, and I can’t. Move.”
And she said, “Don’t think about it, just do it,” completely missing the point.
When I got older I found words for the things I was dealing with. I got professionally diagnosed, and I’d look up information about my diagnosis and e-mail articles to my parents explaining what my disability is and why I can’t do things.
My parents have firsthand information about my character (helpful, likes doing things for others) and my history with disability (can’t consistently keep things clean, can’t manage a daily schedule). I’ve talked to them extensively about my diagnosis and given them information about it. They have known me my whole life, and I’ve always been this way. And they still, STILL choose to believe I’m just a bad person who doesn’t try and doesn’t care.
My disability isn’t invisible, people refuse to look at it.
People like problems they can yell at. They like having a target for their frustration. They don’t want to admit disability is real, because they want problems that they can either solve, or blame someone else for. And the disabled person themself is their scapegoat, someone who can’t ever opt out of their role because the disability is never going to go away.
My disability isn’t invisible, people refuse to look at it.
My disability isn’t invisible, people refuse to look at it.
My disability isn’t invisible, people refuse to look at it.
“The longest I can push myself past my limits is about nine months. Then I
collapse and end up less functional than I was before I pushed myself.“
