Cliché as I know, I’ve been writing for a large portion of my life. With that said, I have rarely shown anyone.

 

I have a failsafe, you see. I’ll finish writing something and I usually love it. I think it’s the best thing I have ever written, most likely will ever write.

 

I feel so damn accomplished about it. But I’ve learned that that glowing self-praise is usually just that, and that the writing isn’t all that great.

 

I find that out later; usually years later after I’ve gained more experience and know-how.

 

So, to combat that, I sit on my writing for a few years after I’ve finished it. I tuck it away somewhere and never look at it. Then, years later, I take it out to see if it has passed the test of time. My writing never has.

 

Until Fuck You, 25.

 

I pulled it out. I reread it. And I was surprised that that feeling of mortification didn’t appear. I still felt that conviction that I wrote with 7 years ago. I knew this was the story I wanted to share with the world.

 

So I did.