The Unexpected Truth
How insecurity shifted to confidence
For the larger part of my life I tried to deal in truth, or at least as grounded to it as possible. I got my hopes up often, only for them to be squandered when the truth came around. I grew up with this mindset that there were realistic expectations to fulfill, and you couldn’t define things by your own terms.
Sure, maybe five or ten years ago. Definitely about fifteen years ago.
It’s always good to keep yourself informed. Better yet, to keep yourself prepared. Any old opportunity can land in your lap. You just have to be aware of it, and when to seize the opportunity best.
I was an exception. I wrote stories for the first seven years of my life before I began to dive into anything even significantly connected to blogging. I didn’t know where to start, in truth. I didn’t know if I WANTED to start. I certainly wasn’t scared of starting to do what I dreamed of doing since I was younger, I just didn’t know exactly what it was yet.
I began to gain some substance of what I wanted to do around my freshman year of college, when the idea of legitimately becoming an author solidified in my head. More often than not, when I set my mind to something it’ll remain fixed on that for an extended time. That mindset has helped me write hundreds of pages of consistent story that others seem surprised I can even retain an attention span to write.
But that wasn’t enough. I held back. I always did. Every significant moment of my life regarding my writing has been defined by me holding back in some way. I debated for about an entire semester showing my English professor some of my stories, before deciding they weren’t good enough. I’d resolved to write a better one and show him a few years later. I still have.
But that’s the exact kind of mentality I’m trying to escape. In fact, I might contact him later tonight about the current book I was going to show him in the first place. Every thought never put to action is a missed opportunity. You have to be aware of this. Be informed.
I wasn’t informed. Until I began to inform myself.
The Internet helps me immensely (when it isn’t fished full of false facts and counter-productive opinions). I can’t tell you how many times a quick google search has helped me in some of the most nerve-wracking situations.
For as long as I’ve lived, I’ve gone by the a strict adherence to be aware of what’s going on around me and how it can impact me on solely one aspect: the color of my skin. I considered people who lived unaware of the repercussions of being black, stupid. Like, the wrong kind of stupid.
Fortunately for them, the only stupid one was me.
You shouldn’t shackle yourself down by the expectations set by anyone else but yourself. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve held back on doing certain things because I figured “but I’m black…will it matter?”
Stupid, I know.
It doesn’t matter. You can’t possibly explain to me in a rational sense that all your opportunities will be blocked due to the color of your skin. Some will be, that is a given. It always happen. But ALL? No.
There’s always a way to get in. No matter what your obstacle may be. It took me writing the first few real pages of a book to realize that. And I use “real” as seriously as possible in recollection to my earliest writings (sheesh).
I didn’t take my writing seriously at first. Not until I got to college. It was just a hobby for me. Something to do on the side when I had a career and wanted to publish a few books on the side.
But that’s so boring. So routine. And I can’t possibly imagine myself doing that for decades of my life and then…that’s it.
Anyway, back on topic. I got to college and took a few English classes. Only through watching my classmates struggle to create and not have the patience to write did I understand that maybe this came a bit easier to me than others.
I never struggled to write, in truth. I never exactly put complete effort in my writing courses either though. Most of the topics were things of disinterest to me, or tacked on topics that required tedious research and unnecessary writing. I hated it. But if I really put my mind to it, I could excel in getting my point across pretty easily. I’d usually finish minimum six-page papers in less than three hours. While I’d watch other people take half the night in the library to do four pages.
The observation made me take my skills a bit more seriously. I was unrefined, with no real professional training or mentoring. Yet I’d come so far just through self-teaching myself. To the point where I felt I could write circles around most people my age. I probably could. But I wouldn’t be surprised if I couldn’t. We all tend to get a little big-headed about things we’re into a little too much.
I’m looking forward to only getting better, and the readers I’ll get along the way.
