Hot Topic: Being Talented

Sitting in the backseat of my car, pressing the side buttons patiently and having the chair transform into a bed, I got to thinking. Maybe it’s the warmth of the stolen airplane blanket and the pitter-patter of the rain (which I’m not adding for dramatization—it really is raining), but I started thinking about my future.


Let's get to it:
 

I have written about my uncertain future and my aspiration for objective success, and it might be getting old but you know, whatever. I just got out of the office after nearly 8 hours of writing. For those not up to date about my frivolous life, I’m doing a 3-month internship at Tatler, where I can use words like ‘denigrate’ and ‘coalesce’ without sounding like a pretentious bitch. But after 8 hours of writing, I got into my car, took out my laptop, and continued writing. I guess my passion for the written word is more than just a passion. It’s my anchor to reality—to make sure I know where I am and what I’m doing.

I had lunch with a friend, and she told me about how she’s a weekly collaborator for an online British magazine now. I’m happy for her and everything, but I’ve seen so many of my friends’ work published online, and it’s pretty discouraging. My fervor for writing has been my predominant forte since I learned how to pick up a pencil, but the thing with passion is that it’s not enough to make you good. Just because you like something, doesn’t mean you’re going to excel at it.

I’m not saying that I’m a terrible writer, but I’m not saying I’m a good one either. I’ve submitted articles and stories online in hopes that I might see my name published on a website for millions to see. Alright maybe not millions, but a few hundred thousand readers are still impressive figures. But alas, none of my work has been published online as of today. However, my articles will be published in Tatler next month, if you guys want to grab a copy and ardently search for my name.

It’s disheartening when I see my friends doing better at what I love. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t only apply to me because my friend refuses to publish any of her artwork in case it’s deemed worse than her supposed competitor. I mean, my other friend is writing a book for god’s sake, which is on my bucket list. Again, I’m not exaggerating when I say bucket list. I have literally written a list of the things I want to do before I die, and I stuck it on a pail. I’m kidding, it’s written online. But you understand what I mean don’t you? When you feel incompetent at what you do, and what’s worse is that you feel incompetent at what you love to do. What’s more unnerving than realizing that you can’t even do well at what you like doing? What is there for you to do, then?

I know that I can ‘train’ myself to be better at what I love and all that, but do I have the time? The world is a song of Bop to the Top and whoever finishes first gets the prize. What if I end up as a mediocre writer for the rest of my life? What if the people around me surpass my skills without even trying? My fear, amongst others, is being average. I don’t want to sail through life unnoticed because then what would be the point of my existence?

I’m still 19, and the word ‘still’ can only be applied for my teenage years. In a few months, I will have to discard that word like rotten eggs, and remind myself that I won’t have the privilege of sucking off daddy’s money anymore.

My anxiety is rising up again, which I usually suppress with a dose of YouTube videos and a Skype conversation with someone. But being trapped in a steel box moving at a meager 1km/h (the traffic is horrendous), I can’t help but unravel the knots in my head, and in my hair. I need to find a new conditioner because Tresemmé is not doing my locks any good.

This is going to come across as whiny bordering on ungrateful, but I do wish I were spectacularly amazing at something. I know that whatever you do needs practice, but there are people younger than me who have achieved way more than I have and will ever do in the course of my inconsequential life. 

I have to go, my battery is running low. I did not mean for that to rhyme but my closet poet is exposing himself. Down, boy.