I don’t write as much as I used to. Fiction, I mean. Writing articles comes easy to me. Just a matter of sitting down and punching those keys.
But stories? The real stories? The ones I hope could one day come true? I don’t write them into existence.
To be honest, I don’t know why. Or how. Don’t you find it frustrating that we live in a world that makes it almost impossible to admit that you don’t know something?
I don’t know why I don’t write as much as I used to.
I am afraid I’ve stopped believing my words to be magic. My words are the words of someone who has become so absorbed by the pettiness of life that he can no longer create. He is no longer the creator, but rather the creation.
I am the side-effect of all the words I wrote when I was a dreamer.
I remember those days with the kind of nostalgia that usually breaks one’s heart. I was dirt poor, struggling in all areas of life, yet I was fascinated by the fact that my words meant something to someone. A few people at first. Then more and more. I read each comment and thank-you e-mail with the kind of dumbfounded expression on my face that sometimes made it easy for me to cry.
Actual people read my words. And they cared enough about them to tell me this.
Real people. You understand this? Human beings, taking precious moments of their time to read something that a 22 year old kid from Romania wrote whenever he felt that he had something to say.
I felt invincible. For a while I even was.
My dream ever since I first started writing was simple: become the youngest writer to ever receive the Nobel Prize, and the second writer to receive both a Nobel Prize and an Academy Award. Nothing too complicated. Nothing to worry about.
They say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And adverbs. Maybe it’s paved with both. Or neither. Maybe it’s paved with the tears of all the dreamers who stop believing in their dreams during the day, yet can’t help themselves late at night, when the angel of solitude curls up in bed alongside them.
I got sidetracked by secondary activities, it is true. I lost heart. Sometimes I’d lay awake at night and wonder if I still had a heart.
It happens. Even to the best of us.
Life breaks us all. No matter what.
I am writing these words because I feel the need to recover whatever it was that I lost along the way. This sense of wonder when it comes to the written word. I need it, because without it I am no one in particular.
Funny. I used to think I was no one because I spent so much time writing. A perfect mister nobody.
I read this interesting anecdote a few days ago:
Adam trudged past the gates of Eden, his head low, his feet heavy with remorse and pain.
Then he stopped, spun around and exclaimed, “Wait a minute! You had this all planned! You put that fruit there knowing I would eat from it! This is all a plot!”
There was no reply.
Without failure, we can never truly reach into the depths of our souls. Only once we have failed can we return and reach higher and higher without end.
What I am really trying to say is that I have spent years denying the magic of words, their power, their authority. I have betrayed myself and those who once believed in my words.
Maybe one does have to lose his way in order to figure out the location of his true path. And why he wants to walk it. And where it leads.
Maybe not all those who wander are lost. Maybe they are searching for what can only be found inside their hearts. They don’t know it yet, so they walk around, looking everywhere but within themselves.
And, truth be told, that’s the main motivation behind irevuo. Or, yes, let’s say 50%. The selfish 50%.
I am building a community of fellow writers because I want to get back in the game. Because I need the support system. The encouragement. The accountability that comes with announcing your plans to someone else, the intense feeling of pride you feel when someone tells you that your words are a bit of magic.
I miss that. I need that.
And, if you believe you need such a support group, if you believe you should be part of a community of fellow writers, then I’d be overjoyed if you decided to join us.
Right now, you can gain lifetime access to the platform (the library of content, the community, and a bonus course on building a platform as an author), for a one-time fee of only $19.
The community is going live on June the 15th, at which time pricing will go up to $70 per year.
Don’t miss out!
Be part of the future of self-publishing, a collaborative web of creatives.
Click here to join now!