Little longings of an aspiring writer.

Sometimes I miss. Then I immerse myself in the fog. My longing is foggy. It’s a bit like moors in Ireland. I have never seen them, but I imagine them so. I see a landscape over which the fog rises. Drizzle. Chill. The view is blurred. Horizon can’t be seen. Weather forecasts for the next few days don’t promise to clear up.

I’m alone. With my dreams. And with my writing. None of my relatives knows what I’m writing about. They do not know English. Maybe it’s my form of hiding behind a wall built of words translated into another language. I express myself, but in a safe way for me. I’m a little trapped.

I’m alone. None of my close friends understand why I devote so much time to something that doesn’t bring income, recognition and doesn’t guarantee changes. To something that actually doesn’t bring anything valuable in their eyes. It is a waste of time.

I write. Time passes. I miss all that I could write. I miss the certainty that I should write. I miss the moment when I could convince myself and others that my time spent on writing wasn’t wasted. Sometimes I imagine this moment. Especially when someone once again tells me about success and asks me how you are doing. Come on. I’m just writing. OH, I hear in answer. And this is not such “ OH” meaning admiration and appreciation. This is OH, which means compasions for loved ones because of having a writing family member and some kind of indulgence for my incomprehensible whim.

I write. Time passes. The amount of unfinished home duties is increasing. The amount of unwashed plates is increasing. A pile of not- ironed- clothes is increasing. A pile of not-thrown-newspapers is increasing. There is a growing amount of dust on the floors. Dirty windows cry for water and washing fluid. Everything is calling for attention. And I plug my ears. I write.

These are not ideal conditions for writing. There is no peace in me. This is rather nervous and impulsive performance of activity that for some unknown reasons seemed suddenly necessary to my life. It is like oxygen and water. Sometimes it’s like an addiction. I can’t live anymore without writing.

The amount of uncooked dinners is increasing. The amount of uneaten dinners is increasing. Waking around the house in a dressing gown in search of a topic is my new Sunday’s hobby. As if the topic was to lie somewhere under the wardrobe or suddenly fall through the window ajar. Like I was haunted. But I am just looking for inspiration.

I write. Time passes. There is a growing amount of time devoted to thinking about what would happen if. What if I started writing earlier? What if I started changing like this earlier?

The amount of un-bought food is increasing. Maybe there will be some leftovers for dinner in the fridge. The amount of missed meetings is growing. Maybe I will write something beautiful at the same time. The amount of unperformed activities is increasing. This number is constantly growing. After all, it is a waste of time to do anything that is not writing.

My friends ask if I was offended at them. No. Why ? However, I can’t talk to them about writing. Most ask what I have of this. Most ask if I have any results and successes on my account. I lost the desire for any conversations. We can’t talk together about my successes. Despite their lack, I write further.

The amount of whims has also increased. Writing is a whim. Expensive. It’s not about money. It is about everything that isn’t done when I write. Writing takes time. It takes thoughts. Actually, I do not want to do anything but write.

A sense of duty towards what is not writing is disappearing. Of course, certain duties remain. There is a family. There is work. I need to eat something. I clean up as little as necessary.

In return, I write. I write more often and more at all.

I think even more about writing.

And I still dream. About great texts that I will write in a moment. There will be words and sentences that will be remembered by others. And I will be recognized as a writer who influences others and who changes reality with words. And I will finally feel that this is it. Finally, others will understand that I was right to write. And that this time was not wasted. I’d like to be right this time.

Some days of an aspiring writer like me are completely devoid of charm, lofty thoughts and successful texts. Such days are not very photogenic.

Fortunately, my little writing longings allow me to survive these harder days.