I've been writing a lot lately. Some for school, but most of my time lately has been sucked into writing essays for competitions, competitions with deadlines fast approaching. Each piece, as I come to concluding paragraph, makes me think that it is perfect, that my heart is embedded in these 3,000 words.
And then it strikes me.
Fear.
My heart races as I glance over the content. What ifs fill my mind and I forget to breathe.
What if they don't believe me?
What if they think my writing style is frustratingly sporadic with its numerous prepositional phrases and strange use of adverbs?
What if I can't find a faculty sponsor who has enough time to read my words and sign that it is thoughtful and well-written?
Or worse, what if they don't think its thoughtful?
What if, they read my heart-filled pages and think: mediocre.
What if, after all the hours poured into the language, into studying these topics into understanding what I believe about personhood and otherness; schizophrenia and my family, they simply add it to the pile, as another essay received, but not worthy of the prize?
Is it enough for me to write well, to write truth, to strive to say what I mean and to fight for what I believe in? Or is the goal to walk away with the prize, with a title that says I deserve recognition?
At the end of the day, if my story gets thrown into the pile and forgotten, has it lost its meaning, or was the purpose fulfilled simply in my writing of it?
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