My writing is a scattered collection of memories and moments in my life. Most people won’t be able to tell what is real, what is purely fictional, or what are bits of my soul.
Yet as I write I can’t help but wonder if people will read it and be able to see deep into my soul. They’ll know my secret fears, who I love, who I despise, the dreams I’m sometimes too scared to utter, and my darkest thoughts.
Sometimes I have to take a step back and remember that most people will simply see my writing as words. They won’t know that bits and pieces of my stories are things that are all too real to me.
They won’t know I formed that tragic backstory out of the pain I felt when someone I loved left me in the dust. They won’t understand that my characters pain and tears are ones that I cried for a friend in need.
When you think about it, really only you will understand the things that you write about and why. Other people won’t understand or see through those dark moments that your characters pass through. Only you know. And those you choose to tell.
Really writing is an act of bravery. To bare your soul on paper, to bleed the whispers of your heart out unto a fresh document, or to simply form the words when you’re too afraid to speak your mind.
I’m a writer, a master of words, my craft is simply nothing more then bits of my soul formed into words. It’s just that simple, yet so complicated all at once.