The Writer’s Curse

Dear Void,

I cherish and despise that no matter what I do, it goes unnoticed.

I write when inspiration finally strikes, though I fear it’s a one way relationship. Only you, Void, are on the other side.

I’m equal parts relieved.

Because to be seen is to be judged, scrutinized, measured, and deemed unworthy.

The void offers safety, if you’re okay with feeling invisible.

Some days that’s all I want to be. To be left to my own devices. Free, wild, impulsive, unrestrained.

And some days it feels like accepting a death of the spirit.

I can’t tell if I love you or hate you. I just know I can’t escape. You’re an opportunity, something to climb out of, and you’re a pit of despair.

I either think I see the glimmer of light, or I don’t bother looking up because I fear it will only be darkness.

Writing is a lonely venture. You join a sea of echoes, hoping to reach someone very far away.

Not anyone. A person yearning for exactly what you have to say. Not obligated to humor you. Not because you asked.

Because your voice is exactly what they needed to hear.

Because you were the first person who could put into words how they felt.

You made them feel understood in a way no one else could.

You took them away, gave them peace, no matter how fleeting.

To know the words you almost gave up on and threw away, are someone else’s antidote to pain.

The writer’s curse is knowing the void exists and refusing to give in, over and over.

So that one day your voice will be heard.

Dear Void,

I write, so I call myself a writer.

So then why does it feel so wrong to claim?

I’ve spent enough sleepless nights, feeling like I’m hovering over my body, shoulders hunched, scribbling. Excitedly declaring, “I’ve done something special here.”

I should be happy I have something that makes sleep seem preposterous. Happy to indulge my creativity, to feel the thrill in my bones so deeply. But two things can be true at the same time.

I am happy. And I’m sad.

Because, Void, you swallow my work. You don’t share. My midnight echoes die before ever crossing over to the ears of my audience.

I just want to know what it feels like to write something that changes someone’s life.

Or better yet a slow burn. A brief pause mid sentence, a quiet remembrance at a later time and place. Something that lingers quietly in the depths, stored away til it’s needed.

Because that would feel life changing for me.

Void, you’re less than validating.

You make me wonder if shouting into you will produce anything other than my own echoes back.

Because right now, at this moment, I’m left to wonder again,

is a writer still a writer without a reader?

Yes, of course.

I’m simply tired.

I will try again tomorrow.