Let me be honest.

Let me be honest.
feeling: thoughtful

My blog has never been one for shameless soul baring or the airing of dirty laundry. Ambiguity has always been my best policy. It allows for enough honesty to get the load off my chest, yet enough discretion to save me from vulnerability.

Any public blogger who insists that he/she does not write for an audience, but only for himself/herself, is either lying or in denial. I am aware that people read this blog, and I subconsciously practise self-censorship. And I do worry if my ambiguity leads to me being misunderstood. Yes, my readers, I write for you.

Bloggers. Aren't we a narcissistic bunch? I am almost ashamed at the twisted gratification I get from knowing that people are interested enough to read what I write.

Yet, there is always that fleeting flare of surprise when someone tells me that they love the way I write, or that they love reading my blog.

And I thought that I should, for once, be as honest as I can be in in a post.

I was a hospitality student who one day decided that I loved to write. The pleasure I derived from the ability to express the intangible in the written form was unsurpassable. My flair with words in the world of hospitality bought me praise. I worked my ass off and earned myself a job offer at the end of my attachment at Sentosa's communications department. I got myself a magazine internship and earned myself praise from the devil. I really did think I was good enough to be where I am right now.

But what used to be my forte merely makes me one of the many peas in the huge pod of words where I am now. Having had the distinction taken from me, I got nervous. How was I to compare with people who had, at the tips of their fingers, the latest world news? How can I compare against people who read clever books I would never think twice about picking up?

Self-doubt kicked in and I momentarily lost my way.

It was in this haze of doubt that I spent my first semester in the course. Muddling. Fumbling. Blindly searching. I couldn't seem to summon a fraction of that consuming passion I had. A part of me didn't even realise that I was lost.

Soo Ling's tag has somehow reignited the diminishing flame.

So I hate reading the newspapers. So I am a girl whose idea of a good book probably involves a pink cover and fluffy romantic ideals. So I am someone who would probably make a crappy news reporter for I have absolutely no interest in current affairs.

I know what I can never be, and I know what I am not. I know I can never write a good piece on local politics.
But I do know what I'm good at. I'm good at writing for you. I'm good at writing insanely frivolous beauty magazine articles, however fluffy that may sound. And I do know what I want. I want my words to make you feel as brainlessly good as I do when I read a fashion magazine. I want my words to take you to places you have never been. I want to relate to you.

I'm done with being lost, and spending my remaining university days just getting by. How incredibly stupid I was to be bummed out because things didn't come easy anymore. They're not meant to be easy. They're meant to challenge, to trial, and to provoke. We are not where we are for the credence that we are the best. I am where I am to challenge myself to be the best. Not the best among the rest, but the best that I can be.

And I'm gonna step up to it. And I intend to work to better myself. I will read the papers, and I will challenge myself to write and think out of the box. And I will jolly well enjoy it not being easy. Discomfort can be strangely satisfying.