I don’t think I can accurately explain what I mean when I talk about the loneliness of writing.

It is linked to the fact that “nobody expects/needs/cares about the stories I write. It is all the same if I stop, isn’t it? Who cares (besides me)? Why do I do this?”

I’m an ambitious person, but careful to keep my ego in check.

My writing is for me. But after so many months working on a story, I inevitably feel like sharing it. And that’s when the problem starts *cue to brooding self to do her thing again*: “nobody expects/needs/cares about the stories I write. It is all the same if I stop, isn’t it? Who cares (besides me)? Why do I do this?”

There is only one story I have ever written for myself. I never finished it (I don’t want to, it was my ridiculous, messy, odd and safe place) nor will I (it bores me now). My first book has a “serious” tone to it, and I have recently discovered that said heaviness is the reason why I’ve found it so hard to write and edit it: there is a solid chance that book isn’t “me.”

Since I’ve spent almost two years wrestling with it, I’ve decided to rewrite some bits, relax the voice, have more fun with it during this last read through. After that? Out to the world you go, my little G, it’s time for you and your story to take a leap and see whether you’ll crash or soar the sky.

My new WIP (and everything I’m planning to write afterward) is fueled by passion and fun.

I believe I’ll become a published author. In fact, I’ll do quite well. But I also know that I need to write for the pleasure of it, to truly embrace what I love, and to explore without considering the potential outcomes. To enjoy the loneliness of writing—to write with no other goal than my personal amusement.

Things only ever work out that way.