Keep Writing (Even When No Ones Reading)

When I was younger, I hated reading. Being dyslexic, the whole learning to read and write thing was over whelming to say the least. How my parents suffered for years as the mere mention of ‘story time’ brought me tears, as I knew they’d ask me to read a line on a page and I wouldn’t be able to.

Then one day – no one quit understands it – it just clicked for me. It was still a struggle, it still took longer, but I was learning. And once I started to get it, I progressed into an avid little reader.

With my love of reading, one day grew into a want for more and thus I began writing my own stories. For years I wrote my own tales and, yes, Fanfictions all through my teenage years. It was my pass time, it was my keen hobby.

Then came the crashing joys of adulthood and all time and motivation for my beloved hobby became deceased without a funeral. Maybe in the long run, it was a good job I never did give my writing a proper burial, because the dream of being a published author stayed with me, even when I stopped writing altogether for about four years.

And now that dream has arisen; I’d like to say like a phoenix, but like a flesh-eating zombie would be a more accurate description: dragged out, looks like shit, half-dead, but hungry. I was ready to sink my teeth back into the game.

Now I’m, at this stage, around 12,000 words into what I hope to be my first novel. In-between, I write an article or a poem that ends up online, in what I call “an attempt of putting myself back out there creatively.” *que recording applause* I do this because one of the main things I’ve always been nervous about with my work is what people may think of it. Long ago I had a book of poem I’d written and when some friends found it, well, I got made the butt end of a joke. Que insecurity.

So, I boldly write – my old poems, some new poem, an article, Lord even revisited fanfiction – and after all that psyching myself up to put myself out there, it turns out I forgot to prepare myself for one thing:

What if nobody even reads it?

Twisted irony that is and now I’m left wondering what’s worse; the fear of other’s judgement or the depression of being unread. And of course, I’m left pondering: am I even worth reading? Is anyone going to read my novel if I ever finish it and, God-help, get it published? Que more insecurity.

I knew from many a writing blog, that writing had to be for you. “I know that” I hound to myself. I hadn’t quite got it. I knew that I should write for me, tell a story that younger me needed/wanted to read; but what I hadn’t grasped, is that you’re not always going to get validation for your work. Thinking back to when my friends laughed at me, I only wanted them to give feedback or at least say ‘neat’ to my favourite hobby. I wanted someone to say, ‘good job’, I wanted a ‘I like your poem’, or a ‘wow great article, but…’. I wanted to know someone was reading. I wanted validation.

And at best I’d get two views.

So, here I am, writing an article to throw away my need for validation on my work. I’ll keep going, I’ll write what I want and still hope someone reads, even my two views, but I won’t let it cause me any more grief.

Long ago, I didn’t give my dream on being an author a funeral and I’m happy it rose again. Now, I give my need for validation a full ceremony, a full farewell.

I will finish my novel one day. One day – somehow – I’ll get it published and even if I’m the only person alive with a copy, I’ll be content that I did it. I’ll keep on writing.