To be a writer.

Writing and reading have always been passions of mine. Ever since I was a young girl I can always remember being able to read ahead of others. I've always been told by others and felt myself that I had a way with words and writing, but somehow lately when I sit down to get anything done I can only manage to barely attempt to put the words in my brain into writing. My brain seems to be covered in a dark fog lately my mind drifts off into a million directions and the letters on the keyboard in front of me all start to blur together while I drift into daydreams.


Click, clack, click, clack.. I imagine myself with pretty painted fingernails, instead of the raw bitten ones I sported in real life, carefully pressing the letters of the typewriter keys to put together the words that flowed easily from my mind. A dream that seems to only.exist in my mind and not reality.

I always imagined myself as a famous writer of some sort, whether it was writing novels, becoming a journalist, having an online blog of some sort even became an idea as I grew older. I just wanted to be any type of writer, to have my words read by many, to have my voice heard, but somehow my mind always came back to the idea of owning and using a typewriter for my own personal pleasure. I had pictured myself becoming a famous author who wrote many types of stories that everyone had known or loved at some point. It was a dream of mine that has always been deep down whether I have other passions or ideas going on at times I always think of writing in my free time.

For becoming a writer of any kind, I would have rewarded myself with a pretty old typewriter. To just finish an idea and get it out into the world would have been enough. The novels I have started in my brain and on paper or online have been many and have all had full ideas behind them. But for some reason my brain always stopped and the inspiration always seemed to fade away as soon as I had started to attempt my stories, actircles, or journal entries. The words I had written for myself wouldn't even transfer from my mind to a page properly. I was rarely ever able to get a sentence, even a single word sometimes, out without having to go back and rewrite it due to spelling or grammatical errors, or just feeling as though it wasn't written the way I imagined and didn't seem to get the main story across.

Why did I ever think I would get to the point I would be able to write novels and/oruse a typewriter. Sure you have many drafts and I wouldn't use it until the final one, but even then my mind panics and hits the wrong keys even when I have a hundred times known what I should be writing. I can never seem to put together the words as well as they flow in my mind.

It had become a frustrating activity, something that once brought me joy and felt so easy, has become something that makes me crumble to pieces as I watch the words I once thought to be so beautiful and poetic turn into a jumbled mess that I feel ashamed to have even written out, might as well show anyone else. Even reading others' written words lately turns into a jumbled mess in my mind, it makes me wonder a bit if the words I've written truely do make sense. But my brain is just too messy currently to truly see the beauty in any of them.

So for now the words in my head will not be written the way they are in my mind, and my mind will be the only place that I have the pleasure of watching my pretty painted fingers carefully press on the keys of a typewriter, imagining the clicking and clacking of the keys each time they were pressed in and printed the letter onto the page in front of myself.