OBLIVION

 "After a usual winter existential crisis, the owner of this blog comes up with her first english entry, hoping to one day publish it on another platform"

OBLIVION

At 1.50pm on a Thursday afternoon, the writer decided it was time to write again. Time, whose was the usual obtrusion between her and the pen, had been abundant on the last months, however she had spent the last two months listening to a rare combination of George Harrison, Dire Straits, Bob Dylan and Belle and Sebastian, thinking about the values of her existence and reading modern classics that were not “classic” enough to improve her way of writing or change her life. Instead of time, she now faced a fear of the pen because of a fear of failure. Since little, she had had an enormous linger to share stories, writing a good story and showing it to the world. And even though she had discovered that the desire of being a writer and actually being a good writer were two different and separate things at a young age, she now realised that having an opinion and actually having a good opinion were also independent for one another.

Being a writer, a good writer had been her desire since little. However, as most humans, she hadn't written anything special or remotely significant for the fear of being a bad writer or wasting good ideas on bad words. Later on, she had decided that in order to be a good writer she needed to write, and since she wasn't gonna spend her good ideas, she would start sharing her opinion on the many things and thoughts that surrounded her. So she created a blog on a remote platform no longer used and began. However she never completely began, she was too aware of everything, every thought, every however she had written on this paragraph, of how everything said or thought had already been thought or said by somebody else. 

She also wanted to create a magazine, like a New Yorker, but made for the youth by the youth and also just published in her country. But once again, the solitude in her ideas, the not having a companionship who shared her dreams, made her wishes be left behind. She sometimes was delusional, so one day, when daydreaming about her writing fantasies, a good friend of hers, an actual good writer, suggested her to open a Substack and write stuff there. Over her two month break she thought about it, she thought about the magazine, her existence, her solitude and God. She opened a Substack, browsed for a few hours and after too little time, she decided she was never going to actually publish there. 

Substack was just another social media. Where people shared just mainly because of the human desire to share and most important of all, the things you wrote, were probably in fact, going to be read by others. If the things she wrote began to be read, she was going to set up a standard for those readers, instead of writing for her own sake, she was going to write for the sake of others, not in a heroic way but in the same way people that publish on the internet tend to do. That's why she decided that she was going to keep publishing on Blogger, a world where the possibilities of becoming famous or even judged were low, almost zero.

The thing that scared her the most about Substack was having a correct opinion. Opinion, even though subjective, does balance around the spheres of correct and incorrect. People could always say what they wanted, but a good opinion is the one that inferes on people's minds. A good opinion is well supported, knitted with arguments in such a delicate and exact way that the reader doesn't even realise it is an opinion. The good food critic knows enough about food, so when others come with contrary opinions, the critic not only knows how to back up and defend his opinion, but already knew what his opponents were going to object. That was her biggest problem, at the age of 20, she felt she had not read enough books, listened enough music or seen enough art in order to have a good and delicate opinion. And thought she knew that she would face dead thinking she never read enough books or listened to enough music. What others thought, the better english of the The New Yorker writers, the interests of her classmates, the however synonyms, were obstructions on her blurry path on becoming a writer, so she stuck up writing on a website nobody was going to read, in a language that good writers barely used and with the fear of never being good enough for what some may call “Being a good writer”.