We all heard that one tale about the gullible emperor who was duped by two conniving thieves who stole his gold and made a fool out of him when they said that they made an invisible robe of magnificent splendor for him. I remember laughing my ass off when my mom told me about the little child who cried out, “lookie here folks, that’s one nude emperor!”
Growing up, one learns to sympathize with the emperor and call out that kid for what he is: a conceited know-it-all kid. Fuck you, kid, for pointing out the obvious.
I got sidetracked, because that what I stated above wasn’t the point that I was trying to make. What I actually wanted to say was, that after I started blogging, ghostwriting and freelancing as a writer, I came to understand with graduality that I had what others would call a ‘gift’; a gift for writing. I didn’t give in to pride or hubris just yet, because we all know it, pride hath a fall and I didn’t want to fall before I had done my fair share of climbing.
BUT! There are always naysayers out there. Naysayers who shit on your face-or at least fling it on your face-each time you come up with something that you think is nothing short of revelatory. My brother and my mother, God bless both of them, one’s a hard eyed realist and the other one is a cynical skeptic. Well, frankly, both are a little bit of both. Me ? I’m-even with my depression, my crippling anxiety and my OCD-a positive person; an optimist you might say.
So, when my mother and my brother, both at the same time, as if they reached upon that conclusion together, said to me “Personally, we fail to see the depth or the morals in any of your writing. We don’t see why or how people like what you write. Perhaps they do so because they feel like you wrote some pseudo-intellectual shit, and that if they don’t like it or acknowledge it, it will show that they’re dumb. Perhaps you are the emperor wearing his new clothes,” I had no recourse left but to drown myself in self doubt.
But I didn’t. Of course, to the uninitiated, it might seem that I am babbling away like a blithering baboon, amidst other baboons, the conglomeration of whom is called a Congress (har-de-har-har-har). I re-read all the blog posts that I had written and not in a single one of them did I find a speck of meaninglessness. All that I have written, I have written from my heart. Everything has divine meaning to me, even the literotica that I wrote once or twice.
I actually get paid for my writing. My clients who hire me as a ghostwriter, have always spoken of me in very nice words. They gave me the best ratings, they gave me the money that I deserved and they shook my hand, smiled and left. I can at least rely on them to be honest with me, right? They all said that I write with girth, depth, gist and heart. I’ve always got them to believe in me even if my own family won’t. Paulo Coelho had a similar fate. His parents made him undergo electroshock therapy because for them, it didn’t make sense what he wrote, why he wrote, how he wrote and where he wrote what he wrote. They didn’t get it why he’d want to pursue this as a career. He did. He’s fucking famous today.
So, the moral of this article here (I’ve got to point it out from now on, it seems) is that there’ll come a time when people will be doubting your authenticity, when people will dismissing you as a guy who knows how to write but doesn’t quite get it, and when people will spew hate. Don’t give in to doubt. Not when you know it in your heart that you’re the shit. But yeah, don’t get too conceited in the process either. Writing, coding, dancing, singing, playing the guitar, graphic designing, and all other skills under the sky, they require practice and constant learning for one to be able to master them. So, do that, imbibe the negativity, build upon it, yadda yadda yadda….
I’ve got one thing to say and since I can’t put it into better words than it already is, here it is :
They see me rollin, they hatin.