When I was a kid, I was certain of two things. I was to be an archaeologist, and I was to write books.
Now, I am thirty years old. I have a master’s degree in Archaeology but have worked very little within my field, mostly due to recurring depressions but that’s a different story. Have I written any books? Hah. No.
I have the urge to write. I have the urge to tell stories. I have characters and events in my mind that I want to put on paper and immortalize. But have I become the great author I always hoped to become? Ehm…
I can blame no one and nothing beyond myself. I haven’t lacked potential, haven’t lacked ideas, haven’t lacked opportunities. What I have lacked is self confidence or self discipline. Often both.
Still, I can’t stop writing. Hoping and dreaming that this time I may be able to push through the mists of self doubt and actually complete a full novel. Every time I have given up I’ve been absolutely crushed, and I always wonder why I keep going, why I do this to myself over and over again. Why not just give up and spare myself the pain of failure?
Can’t. It just keeps coming back, that urge to write.
For years now I have only been writing in English, but just recently I decided to swap back to Swedish for my latest project. It’s strange, and a bit scary, how suddenly it has become so hard to write in my own native language! Writing fiction in Swedish when I am so used to English feels clumsy and just wrong. Or it did, rather. Starting to get better now, after a month or so of working on it.
I’m not going to say “This time I’ll do it!” because that would be tempting fate. I’ll just… leave it at that. And maybe next time I’ll share a short little piece I wrote earlier, I should practice actually daring to put what I write out there for people to see. Maybe, we’ll see.