When There Are No Words
Dig deep?
I have no words to describe my present state of mind. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I have spent almost a decade on this very platform sharing my deepest thoughts and heartfelt assessment about the stuff that affects us as vulnerable humans, trying to find our place in this world.
The other day, I tried to narrow down the number of Medium essays I’ve racked up thus far, since 2013, and it was stunning to find that I have amassed over 5,000 pieces and counting. That sounds amazing, but does it mean anything?
I mean fuck! I could’ve written two bestselling books by now. But, no, that wouldn’t happen because to be a bestselling author and be duly recognized by the likes of The New York Times and The New Yorker, you have to be armed with the adoration of thousands if not millions of followers validating your worth.
You must have numerical evidence of the unyielding support from loyal strangers to acquire the ordained blue check and the full attention of prominent publishers that specifically seek out non-writers who are factory-made to produce nothing distinguishable outside of tone-deaf memoirs.
How do natural-born storytellers become the best at what they do?
