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Poetry: “Writer’s Confession”

I vent a bit about my own history as a writer and my insecurities.


Writer’s Confession


Sometimes I feel unworthy,

To be joined in that grand group.

That calls themselves writers,

A sacred hallowed band.


I compare my life’s story,

With writers that I know.

And wonder if it’s quite enough.

If it means I’m one of them.


I tell myself I wasn’t one.

To write stories all the time.

Sure I had worlds in my head,

But I told the stories to myself.


I lived in a world of magic things,

Where animals were my friends.

I gave them personalities,

But I did not write it down.


I can’t be sure when I did began,

To write my storied down.

Perhaps it was on the day,

When I got my first computer.


Not many paper notebooks,

Survive from times before,

The day when I went digital,

But they were mostly diaries.


That computer did entice me,

To bring my stories out,

Out of my own head,

To be played out on the page.


At that point I was near a teen,

And I must admit right now.

That as my hormones started up,

What I wrote was mostly fanfic.


In that period in my life,

Filled with turmoil and unrest,

I had fandom after fandom,

And for all I conjured stories.


It was not until Transformers,

When I fell in with that thing,

That I made any attempt at all,

To not make my stories suck.


We’ve all written our Mary Sues,

Or Marty Stus if you will,

And I was no exception.

My Mary Sues were robots through.


But in Transformers fandom,

Other writers were all around.

And friends showed me how to write,

In ways that were believable.


All I learned about the craft,

It started in that time.

And reading quite a lot as well,

That never really hurts.


But still I stand before you,

And wonder if it’s right.

That after such a sad, sad start,

I can really be a writer?


I do not have piles of notebooks,

At least not quite yet,

Filled all up with stories old,

There’s just all that fanfic.


But then again I realize,

That the bandit in my life.

Has always been my confidence,

And again it rears its head.


To write, it is a lonely work,

We do it on our own.

And we cannot know how good we are,

Until we are compared.


Until we bring out life’s work out,

And show it to the world,

Only then can it be very clear,

How good we really are.


But doing that takes courage,

Even if it’s on a blog.

And I hope by this confession,

I can feel much braver now.


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