Hello and happy Thursday. Yes, this is happening, I’ve gone insane now and want you to read what I have to say yet another day of the week.
Yesterday I was reading The Manifesto on How to Be Interesting by Holly Bourne when a realization hit me: I have this collection of unfinished manuscripts and ideas for stories, as well as some “novels” I’ve self-published, but I’m never going to become a “real” writer. Now, this is not me throwing a pity party, and this is not me promoting the stuff that I did get to publish and that you can pay like $2 to download. What I just told you was the first part of my realization; the second one was way more assuring: I’m a freaking blogger and each week people read the stuff I write, so I could take advantage of the already existing platform, no?
I know people who post their stories in their blogs, and I’m sure they’re successful, but the thing is, the pile I told you about is mostly made up pieces I started writing when I was a boy-crazy teenager with a very boring life and an evident lack of self-confidence. Like any writer, I thought what I wrote was great, and the world should be thankful for the gift I was giving it, but in reality the stories were cheesy and they mostly were versions of how I wanted my life to be.
And I wasn’t writing because I felt it was the only way to come to terms with my feelings, you know? Yes, I’m sure writing had some therapeutic properties because through my characters I could be someone I wasn’t and do things in real life I didn’t do, but my reasons for writing weren’t really selfless. I wanted the stories being published, and I dreamed of the recognition, seeing my quotes being turned into cute Instagram posts, and maybe even getting offers for movie adaptations and such. Again, I wanted people to read me.
I’m not the angsty 17-year-old anymore, and I’m happy to say I’ve accomplished my goal of having people read me, and yes, it is therapeutic at times. Blogging has made more confident and less stressed about the content I publish, you know? I’m not going to get any prizes for sharing my life with you on here, but that’s just not what I’m here for anymore.
After going through my manuscripts, I decided not everything was crap. Some stuff was salvageable, some stuff could go through an adaptation process and made into blog posts. Now, this “stuff” are not fictional stories. What I kept from every literary project I started when I was a teenager is all autobiographical. Every Thursday, I’ll come to you with an anecdote of my past so that together we can laugh and cringe and go “oh shit.”
Welcome to Throwback Thursday, and I hope you enjoy the ride. In the comments below, tell me how you were at the age of seventeen, and if you’re that age, don’t worry, it gets better.
Love, Miss Camila