i know i'm good but i want to be great

an essay? a think piece? a rant? je ne sais pas

I’ve been writing for my whole life. Quietly honing the skill, experimenting with different forms — short stories, poems, novels — I know that I am good. But I want to be great.

This is a pretty universal feeling, that I know. It’s not unique to only me, it doesn’t make me different or special, it is simply a mark of the togetherness that is inherent within humanity.

Little Women (2019)

But how do I overcome this feeling? What does great really entail?

I used to think it meant having your books be bestsellers, having thousands of followers that admire your words and remind you of this daily, being praised by authors that you once looked up to who have now become your peers. As I’ve grown, I have come to realise that this is not the case. No number can decide if you’re great, no amount of praise can settle that hungry creature who is only ravenous for more.

I have tried so hard to make this monster complacent — publishing books, entering competitions, sharing my work with friends and strangers — but nothing I do seems to be enough. It has taken me 16 years to admit to myself that I am a good writer, but it looks like this is as far as I’ll get. I don’t want to be good, mediocre; I don’t want to be associated with the response to “how are you”; I don’t want to be merely fine. I want my words to stick with people long after they initially read them. I want them to haunt their days, lingering on the edge of their dreams like a phantom that won’t ever leave. Like an ear-worm that can only disappear when you read it again.

I want to write something so profound that people ink it into their arms permanently, I want to write something so profound that they cry for days. I want to write something so profound that they end up highlighting the whole piece, rather than one line or two. I want to write something so profound and life-changing that they say the thing they’ve been so scared to voice. I want to write something so profound that they praise me for the greatness of my words and they hail the ground I walk upon.

I want. To be. Great.

Please God, I promise I’ll pray to you more regularly if you’ll help me be great. I’ll write in more ways — songs and speeches, I promise. I’ll do anything you ask of me, so long as I become great.

But why? Why am I chasing greatness when it is so fleeting? Is my pursuit of greatness hopeless? Is anyone ever great?

The curse of perfectionism is not lost on me. I am my own bully. But doesn’t that discipline, that criticism, push me further onto the path of being great? I’ll never be great as the writers who came before me, the gods of the literature world, but maybe I’ll be slightly greater than the ones who come after me. Maybe they’ll look to my writing for advice and inspiration. Maybe they’ll think of me as great.

I’ll never be great if I don’t think of myself as great. I am just so afraid that my words don’t have the strength that I thought they did. I am afraid of thinking too highly of myself. I don’t want to be wrong. Is that the price for being great?

What if I pretend? I pretend I am great and present that version of myself to the world, and perhaps they’ll start believing me. Maybe I should take acting lessons first. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

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I have no idea what this is about. I don’t know why I am so desperate to be great. Nothing of mine will ever be of significance if I don’t believe it so. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I just have to change my mindset, and start to have faith in myself and my writing. Great can come later, I suppose.

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