if you could say that writing is like travelling, this novice writer is pretty much stuck on a deserted bus station, knowing where to head, but not knowing how to. I have so many things to say yet the words are somehow tied in a box with infinite number of ribbons, I have to untie layers and layers of it till I found them, securely stashed.
I love writing. It takes my heart and my mind through a wonderful journey that I wish I can share with everyone. But every time I finished an entry, my fingers keep clicking save draft instead of publish. I’m afraid I’m not much of a good writer, publishing my entry would somehow expose my inexperienced, immature soul. I’m afraid that my writing would influence other people in not a good way. I found the need to be careful with every diction, every word that I chose. This overly dramatic concern prohibits me from serving whats on my mind on a plate for others to enjoy.
I wish I could be more bold, more vocal. I wish the bus would finally come.