I was told that the way we write says a lot about who we are. The sentences, its structure, and every bit of word reflect a huge part of our lives.
Maybe, that’s why we are so afraid to let others read our work or why we keep our authors anonymous.
The only time that I let someone read my writing, the thing which I considered to be the most precious, it was called shallow. It was branded as something that’s trying so hard yet fails to amaze. It was dull and lacking, and these were the very words which fitted me.
I had no idea that my work would reek so much of the things which I tried so hard to hide. I thought I was good at fooling people that I had warmth and depth – so much substance that made me feel relevant. I didn’t notice that the only person I was fooling was myself.