Reading what I wrote in the past always makes me cringe.

Let me clarify. Back in High School, I spent much of my free time at school writing. If the day was nice, there was a bench in full view of the sky, framed by flowers and vines that I favored. Otherwise, I tended to prefer the library for the gentle quiet it offered.

Back in those days, I had alot more passion for writing then I do now. It was something that made me happy in the sense of fulfillment, rather then a sense of joy. Because quite frankly, there was little joy in writing back in those days. More often then not, the bell would ring and I would be staring glumly at page scarred with cross-outs and x’s. I never found it easy, it was always a struggle to express what I wanted.

I’m not sure why I was ever excited about it back then to be honest. I never finished most of the things I wrote due to sheer frustration. Characters never came alive to me, I only saw the inner monologues in my head transcribed to paper. And I always had the terrible and furtive doubt that I only wrote because I won awards for it. Never because I truly enjoyed it.

Today, I look back at what I wrote in the past, and I’m always dissatisfied.

And yet, I always come back to writing one way or another. Go figure.

-GW