Amidst the criticism and positive reviews, a whisper of doubt echoes in my mind. Amongst the words and flow of thoughts and emotions —tap, tap, tap —on my keyboard, the voice of doubt grows.
The voice screams, screeches, and rips at my heart and soul until realization hits me. Silence.
I write for myself and my characters. I know them from birth and understand what makes them happy, what breaks their hearts, and what they want most —acceptance, compassion, laughter, love, a life lived to the fullest.
They’re perfectly flawed. They materialize onto the pages from my imperfections, my experiences, what I have been and what I might want to be. Though not always.
I write for myself and my characters. The voice of doubt echoes in my mind, screams and screeches, but amongst the criticism and positive reviews, the words and flows of thoughts and emotions, I realize . . . I’m imperfect. My voice might not soothe you. My emotions and thoughts might not move you. But if I write for everyone, I’ll write for no one.
Acceptance, compassion, laughter and love I already have. I strive to live life to the fullest. Perfection? Definitely far from it. I write for myself.