The self-proclaimed biographer (autobiographer) or that old so & so…

I, TIBERIUS CLAUDIUS DRUSUS NERO GERMICUS This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as "Claudius the Idiot", or "That Claudius", or "Claudius the Stammer", or "Clau-Clau-Claudius" or at best as "Poor Uncle Claudius", am now about to write this strange history of my life…

–Robert Graves, I, Claudius

::Author's Preface::

Much of what I have given my writing to stems from self-actualized perceptions of misunderstood circumstances. Stints of poetic inflection, written in prose are an expression of fixated epiphanies and wisdom, achieved through a recollection of emotional trauma.
 
This statement, adds a justification to personal revelations, though unneeded, contribute creditability to my own thought process.
 
Ergo, the post…

I am a shameless self-promoter, self-biographer, and self-endorser. Yet I am poor, if not, horrifically terrible at doing so. I have struggled with what countless writers have fallen prey to, a desire to be read, at any cost. Trying to write is parallel to the struggles of a band striving to become noticed and ultimately, receiving a contact to be endorsed in order to continue onward unto their dream, of making music, money, and gaining fame. What a fantasy, have I allow myself to believe in?
 
I could have easily titled this post "Confession #1: I desire to be read at any cost" or "Why I write (and how it doesn't work)." It might attract more people. In fact, I almost went with one of those titles. The key word here is almost. Yet it would not have connected with what pressed upon my heart, insecurity with my art. Quite seriously. I have struggled for weeks upon months, deciphering the message, I so desired to communicate. Through the struggle, I've written well. I've written so-so. And I've written tripe. I begrudgingly keep it, to read myself of what I do not desire to become. In a way, it is a reminder of what I am not.
 
And yet, look; I am not famous for my wit, creativity, nor the syntax of this post.
 
Still, it is something I have had to come to grips with. I have spent so much time comparing myself, to others who are far superior to my own talent. I even wrote about it. But again I've had to come to terms with my own skill, talent, and desires, whatever you want to call it. It's not a weakness, nor a frailty. It is a style. It is what I was given to write and somehow, at times, I feel I have squandered it or shoved into the closet, as I have had no need for it.
 
Writing is what I have equated to a baseball card that I store away for safekeeping, hoping that one day, it will appreciate in value and then I can sell it to become rich. It doesn't work like that, ever. The analogy is a farce. It is a delusion. One, I have believed because it sounded good. I have had to learn it is a craft and must be treated as such. It has to be perfected and worked upon. It ages like fine wine. 
 
Confession:I have treated writing like a get rich quick, pyramid scheme. 
 
There is a maturity I have had to walk through, due to delusions and decisions I have choice to partake. It has not always been an easy journey, where Wilson stands on the other side of the fence, offering friendly suggestions as to solve the problem with ease. If that were the case, I am quite sure, I would never have learned the lesson of hard work and the struggle for creativity. 
 
Ever felt this way?