What do I say now? I want to add to the story without it becoming redundant. If only I could think of the perfect title, then maybe I’d know what to write about. Staring at an empty page, I hear it screaming at me to continue.
Put pencil to paper.
Don’t pull away from the page until its full of ink.
Maybe this isn’t what growth is? Something that’s linear. Instead of breeding growth, time hinders it. I must stop looking at a clock as my enemy. The devil lives within the book I’ve spent years creating.
I cannot call what I’ve done, growth. What I’ve done is shrink to make myself easier to control. Made my life into a book for the reader’s entertainment. All I’ve been is a character on a page seeking for someone to understand me.
No wonder this book seems to drag on. How do I number these chapters? I’m writing a story without a plot. The main character is only an avatar of who I wished to be. Now I see, the antagonist has always been the author.
I have the right to be selfish. No more will I try to be ‘more’ for someone else. I’ve spent too much time developing the supporting characters. I no longer know who’s this story is about.
An autobiography can never be written in third person. Only one writer can publish a memoir. There’s no purpose in writing books for those who only skim through the pages. I cannot be understood. I write in a language unfamiliar even to me. So now, it’s time for editing and revision.
Open the book.
Rip out pages.
Never touch the pencil again.
I care too much about the reader. I fear too many reviews. I desire too often to be a best-selling author. There’s no growth in telling my story. The author must work on themselves before the book. By understanding this, the story I want to tell will write itself.