I mean, it probably happens to most of us, right? That feeling that we don’t really… deserve… whatever it is we’re doing?
I don’t feel like I deserve to be a writer. Which, fair ‘nuff, I’m not really yet. I mean, I am a writer, but I’m not paid to be a writer. I actually pay a great deal of money every year to be a writer. It is shockingly expensive to try and do a thing.
But I still feel it, in my chest sometimes. Like… a weight. Something sitting on me and whispering that I’m not good enough. That I’ll never be good enough, and that I should stop trying and maybe just go have a nap that lasts fifty years.
It would certainly be cheaper.
Oh well. I guess the trick is to not let the bastards grind you down, if I may quote Atwood out of context. It would be easier, sure, but I’m not looking for what is easiest. All I want is to be… content, I guess. I don’t need riches, I don’t need fame, I don’t need fancy cars or a big house, I just need a tiny, stable income and time to write.
This shouldn’t be so difficult. And yet.
Anyway. This too shall pass, and I know of no better way of dealing with these kinds of feelings than writing. Put all this… weight, I guess… into my work, and hope that it means something to somebody.
Hope everyone out there is staying safe and healthy!