“I could be a good writer”

I really could. I could lie here comfortably and develop a methodical word bundle that would convince you of it. If I had the confidence to be a good writer, I’d explore and extract my imagination. I’d infect each character with creative viruses, but in place of confidence I starve of fear. It is unsettling to wonder through untouched areas of creation.

If I venture too far, I may find pathways that lead beyond the treeline of safety. My cotton candy brain shows resistance to uniqueness; perhaps that is my fear. There lives no writer inside me, no individual thoughts or emotions. No original concepts, stories, nothing new. This is an acceptance I refuse to give myself. I could lie and pretend I to be a good writer until I become one. After all, no good writer knows when they became great. The longer I pretend to captivate you, the longer I can pretend to feel something.