Okay, before I start this, I'd just like to say that I'm fine now. But when I started writing this, I wasn't. It's kind of all over the place, but I figured I'd share it anyway, because I feel like it's something that's important to a lot of people, and if it's not, it's still hella important to me. Now, let's get to it.

Creativity, something a very selective few have. Rather their creative abilities come from art, literature, acting, song writing, or anything in between, it becomes something this individual is rather passionate about. They may excel in this topic at an academic standpoint, or they may fail miserably because the seer of their education sees their creativity in class as rebellion, stretching the limits. No matter what, they face criticism in many forms, rather it be someone telling them it isn't good enough and never will be, or just not finding anything to ignite the spark further.

I myself am a writer, and up until this year, I thought I actually had something going for me. Writing was my passion, it was awakened like a flame gasoline had been poured on. It became my escape from reality, a way to vent. I've never been the best off, and for me, writing was the way of me telling myself I had something going for me. I thought it was something I was good at, yet, like all writers, I slowly became my worst critic. Questioning every word I wrote, debating on a synonym that might flow more smoothly in the paragraph, wondering if I should delete that one sentence, the paragraph, or even the whole thing. I question the length of my sentences, the structure of the words that used to function as my calm, yet now seemed more of a burden. Nonetheless, I continue to seemingly torture myself, knowing I would never get better if I just gave up all together. Yet, that doesn't mean my perspective on all of this didn't change. I used to write for my own pleasure, writing what I wanted to see, or what I wanted to come for life. Now, however, I write for anyone who may happen to read what I scribble down. I write for the plot, becoming its slave. The palace I used to rule is now the same castle that sentenced me to servitude for my crimes against it, the crimes against my true creativity, my only way out of this prison I put myself in is the possibility of praise for my works, the possibility my writings were able to be relatable for another person, and if not, maybe still find a way to pull at their heartstrings. As I say, your so called fans become your tormentors. I'll put my tears, terrors, hopes, dreams, my entire being and soul into one piece, just for criticism, feedback, something. As Robert Frost once spoke;

"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader."

We writers risk our sanity for feedback, rather it be good or bad. We start out happy, writing as a pastime, only to later become enslaved by our talent.

I remember, at the beginning of this school year, we had an assignment. We were to write a short story, but first, had to have a classmate review our plot and approve it, giving feedback. I hesitantly did so, and even though I handed it to my one friend in the class, they still told me my writing wasn't even that good.

I'd like to believe many other people, specialized in any fine arts division, can relate to the pain of never being or doing enough, becoming a mere servant to the activity that once gave comfort. The point of this personal narrative isn't to make anyone feel bad for me or anyone else, but rather to bring an understanding to what we stand for. To make you understand why one might seem under great stress when they're asked to make a new character, or write a song about whatever topic, or asked to draw something. It isn't because they don't want to or don't care, it's that they're already trying so damn hard to please you and their other fans, yet no matter what they do, they can't please everyone. That's the part that hurts in the end, the fact that in the end, they know they'll never be able to capture everyone's hearts, yet they're still driven to try like hell.