My fingers hover over the keyboard as I type in the last few lines, the ones that took me almost an hour to determine the right words.
"What if they don't like it?" I think, "What if someone thinks my lack of pompous vocabulary poses threat to the literature and its structure? What if it goes overlooked?"
A feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me to change it, while the voice in my head says no.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples, trying to relax my eyes from the strain of the illuminated computer screen.
The humor of it all is that I say to people in public that I'm no good with words, but then I devote countless hours slaving over writing.
Just to be read by people I will likely never meet.
Just to get a meager comment, maybe even a "like" that would brighten my day tremendously.
But the whole problem boils down to the fact that I stress over deadlines to participate in contests, I write and rewrite entire novels in both my head and on paper,
I waste endless amounts of time on something that most people don't know exists,
Well, there's no precise definition of being a writer, and there's never a book that instructs you on how to be happy with what you've made, and have everyone else love it, too.
Yet the thing that truly seems to make one a writer is when you finally realize:
That second you post a story, a poem, the slightest thing,