Lately I've been thinking about writing and what it means to be an author a lot. Ever since I was able to bring the first shaky letters down to paper, I loved writing stories. I had these worlds, these images in my head that just had to go somewhere. I have found this old report from when I was in second grade. The teacher wrote that I was a very creative child, which loved to write stories.
And this hasn't really changed as I grew older, it just got cultivated. I was told that it is difficult to be successful as writer, and I suppressed this longing to be creative, telling me that it is a very hard business, that it is very hard to be someone in the creative field. So I tried different paths, different areas, but none seemed to work out, for none I could find motivation.

And I still felt, and still feel, this urge, this drive to be creative - to write, to draw, to decorate. But when I pick up my pen and put it down to paper, I am at a loss. I have no idea what to do. There is all this creativity locked somewhere inside me and I just cannot let it out. And this is frustrating. I am caught in a constant state of refusal. Some part of me denies my creativity it's way of expression.
Lately I came to think that this is because of my lack of life experience. And this is the irony of writing and being a writer: reality can ruin creativity, it can lock it away, but without reality, without real life experience creativity has no inspiration. And this is what being an author means. An author is a translator and transmitter between reality and imagination. He is caught in an in-between world.