What will happen if I stop writing?

I have been thinking about this for a long time. I got into literature and writing way back in school. In college, the love for literature increased. I nurtured it. Read a lot. Thought I too can write. Thus, started my journey into writing.

It’s been a good ten years since I first picked a pen to pen something original. It’s been a fantastic journey. It’s made me what I am now. I loved. I got hurt. It took its toll. I observed people; thought I had answers to most of the problems of the world. Went through motions of being snobbish, being intellectual. Thought I knew it all.

Then, I saw my heroes. They were light years ahead of me. They were humble. Writing came effortlessly to them. It’s like Mohanlal was born to act; Bob Dylan was born to write poetry. It’s a different matter altogether that he sung them too.

It’s been ten years. Reading all my favorite “inspirational” books has made me realize one thing: the hard truth I never wanted to face. I don’t have it in me to be one among my heroes. I don’t have the genius or the talent to write that one line which will set hearts on fire or send an entire crowd into frenzy.

That line may come anytime or it may never come at all. I will join the thousands of wannabe writers who wrote well. Like thousands of musicians who end up playing in orchestras across the world for they were never able to compose a tune that will melt your hearts. Like all the wannabe cricketers who never made it big because they were just good players. Not geniuses; not great; not talented enough.

I am at crossroads in life once again. Do I continue to write for the love of writing? Do I write dreaming that someday someone will publish what I write? Do I write anything that comes my way? Children’s books?

What about my incomplete first novel? What about the remaining concepts that I have? What about the concepts I have for movies? What about my dream about working in a Barista café at least for six months? What about my dream of being a behavior scientist? What about me owning and running my own Renaissance café? What about all that I think is inside me?

After 25 years of romanticism, idealism, and love, I have come to realize that I am just a good guy. Good at writing. Good at dreaming. Good with ideas. But being good is not good enough.

I don’t have the willpower to fight my laziness. Lack of effort is surely there.

If I stop writing, no sky will fall, no river will stop, no love will cry. Because nobody loves a jack of all trades, master of none. If I stop writing, I’ll never be published.

Which I anyways don’t see happening again. No, I wouldn’t want to be published as a children’s book author. And see that nobody reads them. I don’t want to go through that pain again.

Besides, they are not who I want to write for.

So what will happen if I stopped writing?

The sun will rise again. The sun will set. Life will go on. Just that I’ll no more be the man I am. Doesn’t matter anyways.