i think i write too much
AND IT MIGHT BE TAKING A NEGATIVE TOLL ON ME

ੈ✩˚⊹ sometimes, i wonder if i write too much. and it's not just the word count — though the word count is part of it — but the way the paragraphs stretch out like spools of silk unraveling, knotting here and there where my thoughts catch on some necessary detail i can't bear to leave out. it happens almost involuntarily, the same way some people hum to fill silence. i can't seem to leave space between words, as if a story with too much white space is somehow unfinished, incomplete, an empty room where the furniture never arrives.

it isn't that i believe i write better than other people. in fact, i don't think that at all. i read other writers' works — on wattpad, ao3, even those little serialized apps where people post fifteen-minute episodes with cliffhangers — and i marvel at their simplicity. how they can write in these swift, easy strokes that say just enough without saying everything. he looked at her. she looked away. and somehow, just like that, tension blooms between two people. i envy the way they seem to know how to leave things unsaid.

but that's not my way. i have to say things. every glance, every look away, every small breath between words feels like it's carrying some weight i need to unpack. it's not just about what happens — it's about how it feels to the person it happens to. and so i write like that. long, winding sentences. sensory details that linger too long. characters with inner lives so dense that even their dreams require backstory.

i can't help it.

the writers i love — ruth ozeki, donna tartt, mieko kawakami — they all write like this, with words that dig in and bloom like mushrooms after rain. my style follows theirs like a vine tangled around an iron gate.

the problem is — and this is the part i hate admitting — i don't think it's working. not for wattpad, anyway. maybe not even for the audience i keep imagining, this fuzzy notion of people out there who must exist, people who crave what i write the way i crave the books i love. they have to be out there, right?

but the stats tell me otherwise. my story will sit there, stagnant, while others post and within hours, their comment sections are on fire. 30 comments. 100. some chapters hit 2,000 views in a day, and mine... mine limps along. a handful of — my favorite — readers trickling in, a quiet like the space between radio stations.

and it's not narcissism — at least, i don't think it is. it's not like i believe i deserve some special treatment just because i write eight-thousand-word chapters. it's just... confusing. with the amount of time i put into these stories, the hours spent polishing sentences until they glimmer like glass — shouldn't that mean something? shouldn't people want to engage with that?

i keep thinking maybe i'm not packaging it right, or maybe i'm just in the wrong place. like bringing a full-course meal to a food truck rally. people want sliders and fries, and here i am offering braised lamb with mint gremolata.

and yet, i can't stop. that's the worst part. i've tried to change my style, to make it shorter, faster, easier — stories that slip in and out of the reader's mind like a pop song. but every time i sit down to write, the words sprawl. there's always more i feel like i need to explain, another layer i need to uncover, because what if the reader doesn't get it? what if i don't say enough and they miss the entire point?

so the chapters grow, and the comment section stays quiet, and i start to feel like i'm talking to myself. which isn't a new feeling, really. it's one i've known for a long time — since i was a kid, filling notebooks with stories no one asked for, scribbling into the margins of my school assignments until the words became more interesting than the assignment itself. writing has always been like that for me — a place to be understood, even if no one else is listening.

but maybe that's the thing that's starting to bother me. not being listened to. not in the way i imagined, at least. i don't think i need praise — okay, maybe a little praise wouldn't hurt — but what i really want is proof that someone's there. that they're reading and thinking, even if all they leave is, "wow, this hit me," or "this part made me cry."

just something to tell me that what i'm writing isn't disappearing into the void.

instead, it feels like throwing words into a canyon and waiting for the echo. and some days, i wonder how many words i'll have to throw before the canyon answers back.

i take a lot of time — too much time, really — crafting my plots, weaving them together like strands of thread in an intricate tapestry. each idea unfurls slowly, sometimes stubbornly, as if reluctant to reveal itself until it feels fully formed. there's a kind of ritual to it, a quiet communion with the blank page that stretches before me, where possibilities lie dormant, waiting for the spark of inspiration.

it can be excruciating, this process, because i know there's a fine line between meticulous planning and creative paralysis. yet, when i finally stumble upon that thread that leads me deeper into the story, everything clicks into place.

my favorite part of publishing my stories is writing the prelude.

it's the moment when i get to share a glimpse of what's to come, a sneak peek into something that feels vibrant and alive, something i just know will resonate with readers. in those few paragraphs, i condense the essence of my narrative, painting a portrait of the world i've created, one that holds all the chaotic beauty and raw emotion of the journey ahead. it feels like an invitation — come, step inside this universe i've built, let's explore together.

and when the comments begin to pour in, oh, how my heart swells! each notification feels like a little burst of joy, a confirmation that my words are landing somewhere out there in the ether. when someone spams my book with comments, their enthusiasm spilling over like a fountain, it's as if they are walking beside me on this winding path of creativity. i can picture them, eyes wide, fingers flying across the keyboard as they share their thoughts and feelings, dissecting each twist and turn with a fervor that fills me with warmth.

it makes me feel so, so happy — this connection forged between writer and reader. it's validation in its purest form, proof that there's someone out there who not only reads my work but is truly engaged with it, savoring each sentence, each carefully chosen word. i imagine them laughing at the funny parts, holding their breath during the tense moments, and feeling their hearts break along with my characters.

to know that my writing style resonates, that it reaches someone in a way that feels profound and meaningful — it's a heady sensation. it makes all the long nights spent scribbling in notebooks, the endless revisions, the nagging doubts worth it.

in those moments of connection, i feel less alone.

that's the magic of it all — the knowledge that, even in the quiet corners of my mind where the stories reside, there's a world waiting to engage, to love, to find beauty in the very intricacies that make my style uniquely mine.

when people read my preludes, a thrill rushes through me, a surge of excitement as i wait for them to unearth the hidden treasures nestled within my words. each phrase, each carefully constructed sentence, carries a layer of meaning, a nuance placed there intentionally, like secret whispers woven into the fabric of the narrative.

it's as if i'm leaving breadcrumbs along a winding path, hoping readers will pause, lean in closer, and discover the gems that lie just beneath the surface. there's a thrill in that, a delicate dance between author and reader, where the unspoken threads of connection begin to intertwine.

but when i see someone vote on the chapter, then just two minutes later, cast a vote for the next, a pang of disappointment slices through me. my heart aches at the thought that they may have skimmed over the prelude, rushing past the nuances and the intricate details i so painstakingly crafted. how is it possible, i wonder, to truly absorb what i've written in such a short span of time? the prelude is not just a prologue; it's a portal into the emotional landscape of the story, a space where questions are posed and the seeds of future revelations are planted.

i know, deep down, that some of the questions that will arise in later chapters are answered in those very first words. the insights are there, waiting to be discovered, waiting to spark the reader's curiosity and propel them deeper into the narrative. and yet, with each hurried vote, my heart sinks a little more, aching at the thought of these vital moments being overlooked, their significance lost in the rush.

how can i share my world, my characters, my thoughts, if they're only being skimmed over? it feels as if the essence of my story is slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, and all i can do is watch as readers hurry past the very heart of it, the pulse of my narrative, the truths hidden in plain sight.

in those moments, i grapple with the duality of creation — the exhilarating high of bringing my imagination to life and the bittersweet ache of knowing it might not resonate as deeply as i hope. i want my readers to dive into the depths of my words, to feel the weight of each sentence, to explore the landscape i've painstakingly created.

yet, when they rush past, it feels like a part of me is left unacknowledged, like a secret shared with the wind.

i've now almost stopped completely reading other people's fanfics on here — something that used to bring me so much joy. in the past, when i wasn't immersed in my own writing, i would scour the tags, hungrily diving into the depths of someone else's imagination, eager to discover new worlds and characters that felt as real as my own. the thrill of finding a hidden gem, a story that spoke directly to my heart, was a rush like no other. but now, that exhilaration feels like a distant memory, slipping through my fingers.

instead, i find myself grappling with a strange dissonance. now that i've started to carve out my own identity as a writer, i'm having trouble reading others' stories. the very act that once brought me solace has turned into a mirror, reflecting my own insecurities. why? because, inevitably, i compare. every time i click on a chapter that's less than a thousand words — brief, sharp bursts of narrative — I can't help but wonder why it garners more interactions than my sprawling, detailed prose.

there's an insistent voice in the back of my mind, nagging me with questions. is it because i write too much? do the people of wattpad not like descriptive paragraphs about the sky, where clouds roll like waves across an endless ocean of blue, or the damp scent of mildew clinging to the blades of grass after a summer rain? do they prefer the adrenaline rush of a fast-paced love story, the kind that flares up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July, instead of the intricate, detailed slow burn i'm drawn to?

i find myself sitting there, staring at my screen, lost in a whirlwind of doubt. what am i doing wrong that these other writers seem to be mastering? their succinct tales unfold with such ease, drawing in readers as if their words are magnetic.

is there some unspoken code, a secret language in these short chapters that i haven't yet deciphered?

i start to dissect their techniques, analyzing the rhythm of their sentences, the way they hook readers in with tantalizing snippets, leaving them craving more with each line.

in this relentless comparison, the joy of discovery fades, replaced by a sense of competition that gnaws at me. where there was once a welcoming community of shared experiences, there now lurks an undercurrent of anxiety, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, my style doesn't belong here.

how did something that once felt so liberating become a source of frustration?

the joy of writing, the very essence that fueled my creativity, is becoming overshadowed by these comparisons. instead of feeling inspired, i find myself questioning everything — the validity of my writing style, the choices i make, the very words i type.

i know this isn't right. deep down, i understand that i shouldn't feel this way, shouldn't downplay the efforts and talents of others. yet, despite this awareness, i can't help but feel bothered. it gnaws at me, an unease that settles like a stone in my stomach, heavy and persistent.

the truth is, these thoughts have been swirling around my mind for a while now, a tempest that refuses to quiet.

sometimes, i wish i could simply shake it off, push aside these insecurities as if they were nothing more than dust on my shoulder. but the reality is more complicated. i wrestle with the nagging feeling that my writing style may be seen as overindulgent in a world that seems to favor brevity and speed. it feels as though i'm caught between the desire to stay true to my voice and the fear that my words are slipping away from the readers i wish to reach.

yet, despite the turmoil, i know i'm not going to change my writing style. i can't. every time i try to condense my thoughts, to strip down the richness that defines my prose, it feels like severing a piece of my identity.

my words are an extension of who i am, a reflection of the worlds i inhabit within my mind. they breathe with a life of their own, and to silence them would be akin to silencing my own spirit.

i think i just needed to rant about this — to let the storm inside me spill onto the page. sometimes, it feels necessary to voice these frustrations, to give them shape and form, if only to make sense of them.

and while i may not have anyone to confide in, it's a comfort to know that writing can serve as my own confidant, my outlet for the swirling thoughts that refuse to settle.

so, for now, my only options seem to be to take a break or to simply continue on my path. perhaps a break will provide the clarity i need, a moment to breathe, to step back and rediscover the joy that brought me to the page in the first place.

or maybe i'll dive headfirst into my next chapter, surrendering to the rhythm of my words as they unfurl like petals in the sun.

the choice is mine, and while the decision feels heavy, it also holds the promise of renewal. and in that possibility lies a flicker of hope — a reminder that, despite the doubts that creep in, my voice is valid, my stories worth telling.

perhaps it's time to return to the core of why i started writing in the first place: to create, to share my voice, to build worlds that resonate deeply within me, regardless of how they are received.

because in the end, what matters most is not the number of interactions but the passion behind each word, the authenticity that flows from my fingertips.

much love,