Operation

Often, I read. Internet articles, interesting blogs, classic and fanciful books, short and long stories, myths and fables - all these and more, I pore over each day. Then, clambering into my writing nest, cozying beneath pyramids of blankets, I create. Leisurely, meticulously, I craft each syllable and phrase, aligning and puzzling each piece into place. Am I an artist or a surgeon? Excellent query. I'll remove these vocal cords and ask the patient's opinion when finished with this writing operation.
Weaknesses in my intellectual scribbling abound. Each article, each blog and artfully manifest bound book I flip through shames my own conceptions. My worlds are barren, theirs flowing and bright; where seas clash and thunder roars, on my world the sea gurgles and storms are but clowning clouds; animals caper, crawl, and canter in their worlds, mine only cower. Is my imagination inadequate? Are my tales lacklustre?
I've no critics, you see. If I had but one: an outspoken, violent critic of great authority and grating wit, well, then I might be great. My competitive nature might spurn me into incomprehensible heights: empty skies would fill with salty stars and perfect, argentine moon, where below pixies and satyrs prance and chant around mirror ponds where listless maidens lay, basking in fae-light, baited until dawn of day.
But I've chosen an auto-didactic trail, a road from which few prevail. The poetry pool beneath and impassioned, fiery fruit above are my Tantalus aches - I cannot reach, I cannot drink, I suffer only to wait. Wait as each classical piece draws unwittingly nearer, as each persuasive prose or poem swishes in the air overhead, as my legs strengthen to leap. The waters around my neck, the breeze brushing the branches just out of reach - it is only time, then, and patience.
I can, of course, be overcritical of my own writing. Yet, still, the ardent nature of my writing is frequently lacking. I hate being overly informal. I despise writing (not necessarily reading) evaluations and descriptions that serve only to claw sermons from nothing. I always feel as if I'm drawing analysis on credit, and eventually someone might realize I've nothing worth saying.
Still, the onomatopoeia in daily experience is rarely utilized within my writing, for I scarcely delve into my experience. I vaguely bounce around it, scuttling like a crab sideways instead of forward through my beliefs and ideas. It is a paranoid, terrified principle, and one I fear stymies my growth the most.  If only I had the guts to define my ideas in honest terms, to risk everything, and then risk everything thrice more. Sometimes, dear Ender, you must do the unbelievable to prevent the inevitable to win the impossible. In the end, you can only pray your punishment isn't Xenocide.