Three Reasons Why I’m Not [Yet] a Great Writer

Three reasons why I am not yet a great writer:

One.

Because I am not honest.

I would like to use obscenities sometimes, but I choose not to because I am a Christian. It’s not that I would like to be vulgar; I simply feel that there are times when expletives are necessary…

…like when it took me almost three hours to put my son to sleep. While tiptoeing out of his room, I step on a squeeky toy that I’d begged my daughter 12 times to pick up earlier, which wakes my son up.

or

..like when I put my last $15 into my gas tank, hurry into my car to get to work, and it does not start.

I would think a “shit”, at the very least, is applicable here.

But I would rather be proper than be honest.

Two.

I am afraid.

Of being too….something… Too black. Too feminist. Too religious. Too typical. Too universal. Too tolerant. Too much.

Or even not enough of these things.

I’m afraid that it only took 18 years to write myself into a permanent circle; with no more depth or height in my words. Only monotony. Around and around.

Passing by the same street corners; going down the same avenues that I’ve always gone and never daring to venture down scenic routes.

I know for certain that there are undiscovered dark corners on the outskirts of my pages, but I am afraid of finding if there are other worlds there or simply a cliff. I am afraid of losing myself. And I’m afraid of finding myself.

And three.

This one is more insidious than the other two combined: I care too much about what you will think once I’ve said my peace. I’ll show a tiny bit of bravery here and talk about my book that I released this summer…

I’ve sold 10 copies total. And it took 5 months to sell 10 copies. 1 of them was purchased by me (which I eventually gave away) and another copy my mother bought. I’m afraid I care too much about this. Even now, you are reading these words and may feel pity for me. It’s not my intention, but I see there may be something meaningful, but hidden, lodged in between this book and my next one. And I wish to reveal and pry it loose. At this point, I feel that my words just may be currently unimpactful, at the end of the day. Good, in theory, and even welcomed, but lacking what’s necessary to draw a reader’s eye and appetite.

It is these reasons, among others, why I feel like I’m not yet a great writer.

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So…

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I just self-published my first collection of poetry. It took me much longer than I’d like to admit, but I did it. Something concrete that I created is public. Open to be consumed and critiqued. Interpreted.

I hope people are inspired. I hope people understand me more. I hope to help others put their books out. I hope this is just the beginning.

I feel clean. Like I’ve made a lengthy confession about my first 31 years. Now that this is done, I can move on, and write more honestly. Clearer. Some of the poems in this book represent a trek from mindsets that I don’t even hold anymore. Battle wounds that are simply scars.

Wow.

It’s done.

If you’re interested, find the book here:

For James