I want to write. That’s for sure. I want to tell stories and fill up people’s minds. I am certain of that. The only question is…write what? I can’t help to feel that my dreams of becoming a writer is just a cliché. I want to be original but how can I when it feels like every story has already been told. Someone told me “write your story then you can go from there.” But what’s my story exactly? A girl from a third world country moving to one of the most powerful countries in the world? An immigrant? A Haitian? Someone struggling with self-identity and self-loving?
My life is filled up of hundreds of stories. They all feel as equally important as they are unimportant. More notably, they have all already been told. My life doesn’t contain anything fresh and revolutionary. I’m simply living like everyone else. How is my story worth more than anyone else’s? Most people would say it’s because we’re all unique. However, doesn’t that same uniqueness cancels our ability to be unique? What’s the limit on that uniqueness?
I wish they had told me how hard this journey would be. Actually, they did. Many people said it would be hard. Some of those opinions were not even requested but they gave it anyway. As usual. What everyone failed to mention was which part of it would be the hard part. I can deal with the agent searching or self-publishing mayhem. I can even convince myself not to freak out about the fact that my book is sitting on a shelf by itself or that I only sold about 20 copies due to lack of advertisement. The one thing I can’t deal with is the knowledge that my story is not good enough. It’s the thought that my story will never inspire someone, anyone. That thought is crushing me. I have hundreds upon hundreds of stories inside me, waiting to get out. None of them seem good enough, though. Most of them don’t even seem good enough for me to think about them. Let’s not even mention writing them down. I’ve started to write a couple of them but as soon as I start, I remember why they’ve been caged away for so long. I try to get them out but I can’t get passed the feeling that my mind is incapable of producing an inspiring, loveable story and I should stop while I’m still ahead.