I don't remember how old I was when I decided I wanted to be a writer. All I know, is that since then the desire to create has consumed me. However, perfectionism has become my downfall. Its fed off the doubts I've willingly handed it, and tainted the only thing I've ever purely loved doing.
I'm eighteen now, and after so long, this is the first time I've ever considered doing something other than writing. There are options which seem more realistic, and would make me more money for me than the meager life of a writer. The question is though, could I put to rest the one thing about myself I've always been sure of? That I could write, and that if everything else failed, I would always have my writing. I've compared my talent with so many others, that in some ways I've pulled apart the threads to the canvas I was just beginning to design. There were choices that I made; choices of comfort over trying something hard.
Last night was the first time I felt regret for being who I am. How can I go back to a life of normality, when I've tasted such raw magic? ---But, how can I continue on, when with every step my desire to make things perfect destroys just a bit more of the dwindling pool of creativity I have left.
There are questions. So many questions. What will I do with my life? Is my writing salvageable? How am I going to pay for college? Should I major in my second love, science? Why are people so hard to work with? Science is so hard, can I really do it?
Yet it all comes back to just one simple thought: I love writing, with a passion nothing else can touch. I want to spend the rest of my life trying to improve it, I don't care how I have to do it.