A frequent question that often comes to my mind is this: Are my stories really worth retelling?
I have this tiny (okay, maybe I’m downplaying it; consider the right term to be “enormous”) fear that whatever stories from my life that I want to write about aren’t really as intriguing as I imagine they are.
And such a train of thought usually leads me to conclude that perhaps I should wait until something more dramatic happens in my life so I can turn that into an engaging story instead.
And so I wait.
But even if something else that’s even more interesting comes into my life, I’d still think that it’s possibly still boring and only fascinating to me and that then leads me to decide to put off writing about that particular incident.
After a few rounds of this vicious cycle, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve forever resorted to inaction due to disappointment over the mundaneness of my life or because I’m just too afraid to give things a serious try.
Either way, the pages have still remained blank and my creative bank of ideas continues to dwindle further.
Perhaps I should just write and not care about the potential reactions of others. I have thought about that too. But somehow… writing for a non-existent readership feels somewhat pointless. Why do we write if not to be read?
But maybe I’ve just got it all wrong, after all these years. That could be the very reason that I have not really improved my writing repertoire up until now.
So I’m writing about writing now. Well, at least there’s a new post to update this blog with.