When I began this blog, I was fueled with passion to write. I was itching to write and post for the world to see. Progress was made on my story, with the intention of turning it into a full-length novel. And then…I don’t know what. It is becoming harder and harder to write. I simply don’t have the oomph, and I believe I have once again allowed doubt to seep in where it doesn’t belong. Maybe I can’t do this afterall. Maybe I’m kidding myself to think I have talent. I still have grandiose plans for swigging lattes at a trendy Seattle cafe while furiously typing my literary masterpiece on this trusty laptop. Then I realize that that takes a great deal of effort, and I’ll have to find parking, and coffee is so expensive these days, and I’m trying to save money, and… Excuses, excuses. For my reputation as a hard worker, I sure have a lot of excuses for why I shouldn’t do things.
Of course, some of my reasons are legitimate. I just worked a ten hour day and still have a whole slew of personal chores to achieve before turning in. Makes it a little hard to call up creative genius. Yet, as convincing (and even true) as that argument is, it belies the root cause for my failure to write. I’m scared, plain and simple, of failure in general. We perfectionists value perfection so much that we will avoid any risk of failure. Since I am not confident that writing is my calling and gift, I am hesitant to jump in full hog. Disappointment is a nasty bugger, a guest that will receive no hospitality from me.
There is the old adage, “You’ll never know unless you try.” Couldn’t really hurt, could it? Honestly, I just enjoy the process of writing. It clears my head, so to speak. The only thing that could be damaged should I fail to amount to anything as a writer is my pride. That could actually use a hit or two. I am blessed to have a day job that pays the bills–anything I could make or accomplish with writing is just gravy, baby.