It’s funny how you think you have accomplished something only to discover at the exact hour of need, that it was all an illusion of progress.
I was quite proud of my blog actually.
Sure it isn’t that great, but hey, for someone who has never managed to complete a story, I was quite the active writer.
I thought I had many pieces hidden away here, from my friends and critiques- somewhat like an emergency store for proof that I might actually be worth something.
Then my best friend told me she hadn’t read any of my writings and judged something quite terrible as something I had created.
So I thought, why not make her read something from here?
So I went through my blog posts, and I realized, not a single one of them is worth sharing with her.
On anyone else.
All my confidence flushed down the drain in one swift swipe of a finger.
Now I stare at the screen and realise I’ve been wrapped up in a false sense of comfort.
I’ve grown up reading varied authors from Blyton to Kafka. When I finally have the chance to show my work to someone who has read all of that with me, I realise what a poor standard I am.
In the light of who my teachers were, what I have created till date is paltry, and when she sees it; she will know.
I guess that is why I have an anonymous blog.
Because I am in denial.
I let people live in the illusion that I might or might not be a good writer.
If they found my blog, they’d know.
That I am not even a 0.5 probability of being something.