Category : Diary/Journal

Sub Category : N/A

Up until I proposed to my fiancee,  I considered July 15, 2015 the most important and transformative day of my life. It was the day a butterfly emerged from its cocoon after years of crawling amongst dirt as a caterpillar. It was the book I published my first book, A Misc. Eden. 

Getting to that day was a magical it itself. After writing for almost my entire life, refusing to share my work with anyone else, I took a leap into the unknown by letting the world read my work.

It was the proudest moment of my life. I felt accomplished, perservevant, important, and so many other feelings I couldn't put in words-and still can't.  I was cloud 9 and stayed there for some time. I even got a tattoo to commemorate the book-a leaf that I used as motivation to keep writing. I couldn't sleep without thinking of the characters or their misadventures.

Then, it happened. One day I work up and the excitement was gone. I wrote a book, but so what. I stopped thinking about the characters and the story as much. My tattoo became just another part of my body like a mole. I stopped thinking about the book altogether. I'm not even proud anymore. 

It hurts because I feel like I'm betraying and abandoning my children. They are calling out to me, their father, begging for my acceptance and acknowledgement, yet I don't respond. 

Why don't I care anymore? Am I ashamed of them? The book?