the irony of being a writer is getting praised for your talent, only to be disappointed or unfulfilled when reading your work.
as much as i as i like to tell myself that my published pieces are "decent", decent isn't good enough for me. i crave to feel the narrative lyric-like poetry that encapsulates vulnerability the way my characters think; only to fill in the pages with words i know is mediocre. but as the deadline of publishing nears, my creativity wavers.
the younger me would've laughed at me.
reading my old works, i can't help but crave to rewrite them all over again. rewrite the paragraphs, strengthen my sentences, increase the minimum word count because anything under 1500 words is too little. i'm a trained journalist—this should be easy for me to do. i've written twenty paragraph feature articles under an hour, but the moment i pick up the pen to write about minyoung's story, my drive and vocabulary is buried under the bones of my old self. but i'd rather believe that she's dead—because the thought of her being alive somewhere means that i've lost my creativity.
to the ghost that still haunts me, let me write the way i think.
so, mote it be.