Writing has always been something I do. I’ve written so many words, most of which will never see the light of day. I’ve gotten input and read books on story and style. I am passionate and obsessed. But I wonder if I should quit, frequently.
Let me explain my untrustworthy brain.
First: I have an idea, I feel excited about it.
Then: I start writing, I love it.
Then: Things get complicated and I wonder, Is this story even interesting?
Then: I switch projects and I can’t share a half finished mess of a first draft.
But recently it’s gotten worse. I now question my ability to write at all. No matter how many compliments I’ve received, I can’t trust that I can string words together in a way that is appealing.
It’s all very logical, if you’re in a warped state of anxiety. Without having any published work, I can’t quantify if I have talent. But I would never want to see my value in how much money I’ve made and talent is subjective. So, it’s fruitless. But it’s still there.
I’ll never be able to know if I’m good. So the question is which existence do I want? One where I write and struggle with this withering insecurity or one where I don’t write and there’s a valve closed inside of me.
So, I try. I try to trust the encouragement of others. I try to get words down even when they’re hard. I try narrow my focus to just the scene in front of me.
And I try to voice my fears because they’re feasting on my silence.