Ultimate Masochism

Writing is like hanging out with the woman who is the love of your life, but rejected you. It's that feeling that, "It could be so great," but it just isn't and hurts like hell every time you see here. That's what writing is like for me anyway. It's pain. It's torture. It's, I don't know, like that cancerous tumor in "Phenomenon."

Why am I writing this? I just came to the realization that I don't like creating things as much as I used to. I used to love sitting at Starbucks with my journal to just write. But now I realize why. I never go back to those journals once I write in them. They sit in my closet, or, if I'm lucky, I lose them.

The reason it's so hard for me to enjoy writing now is that I am my harshest critic. I can read anything I've written in the past, anything I've been proud of, and shred it to pieces. I can read anything that people in my classes liked and disagree with them all, preferring to believe that it actually sucked. In fact, I look more forward to my classmates harshly criticising something I wrote than them praising it. Weird, I know.

The truth is, I can't be pleased by anything I write. It tears me to pieces knowing that this is so. I want to pick up something I wrote and be proud of it. I appreciate it when people say that something is good, but in the back of my head I always feel that they are lying.

What does this mean for me writing in the future? Eh, same ol' same ol'. I'm a masochist. I'll torture myself until the end of days. Until next time.