what is worth reading? and does it matter?
I’ve never been great at moderation.
I tend to oscillate between extremes, in fact.
Lately, those extremes have consumed my writing, from
Writing is relaxing
It helps me think
This is a good habit
to
Who am I writing for
Why should they care
Am I full of myself
etc.
You know the drill.
More recently, though, I’ve been wondering, does it really matter whether my writing is a pure creative outlet or a petty appeal to my own need for attention?
Why can’t it be both?
Arguably much of my better writing has been in self-absorbed, self-pitying lovesick poems from my youth. Until one weary day when I finally gave in to the performative expectation of happiness and intellect, only to end up another uninspired unimpressive trend-hopping to replicate the sensation of creation.
Stifling this selfish beast of blood and poetry lurking within my bones, shoving the suffering and sinew under the bed, smiling for guests with bees hidden carefully behind my teeth — none of it actually earned me acceptance.
If anything, I was just deemed uninteresting by the very same who once would’ve considered me too much.
What a waste of time.
Why was I fretting again?