I always quite liked writing.
Although I have some weird punctuation problems, and let’s just say that my grammar isn’t very close to perfection, I find it easier to write than talk. I love talking and I’m doing it frequently, but I guess what I say doesn’t make much sense, especially when I’m stressed.
There is an episode of Skins, in which Cassie – a young girl suffering from anorexia – shows her friend how she makes people believe that she eats. It’s all a matter of using the cutlery, making rapid movements with your knife and fork, so people would believe you are cutting good and then eating it. Imagine I have the same thing with words.
In the times of my 30-minute long “depression”, I often asked myself “what’s the point of my writing? I am no Hemingway, no Proust, nobody that could matter in this writers’ world”. The answer was easy – it’s because I like it, almost nobody started with the greatest works ever , and the amount of geniuses in the world is pretty limited.
So please, do the things you like, as long as you like them. Not for other people who adore the fact you do what they think you should.