A lot of times, I’m scared.
Definitely scared of not being good enough. Sometimes that makes me afraid to try.
I’m afraid of calling myself a writer. It’s a lie, although it really isn’t. I feel like a sham, or a joke - except no one knows the punchline, so thankfully no one laughs.
The punchline? I’m just full of ideas that are either “too good” or “not good enough” for me as a writer right now. I just hoard ideas, snippits of dialogue, something I overheard someone say while I was at work or in the park or drinking tea and staring at the blank page in front of me. That’s all I’ve got, aside from a few short stories that have gone through the whole procrastinate-write-revise-submit-feel proud-hate-hate-loathe-revise-give up on-hide away forever cycle.
I’m afraid of not calling myself a writer, because what the fuck else would I do?
But. I’ve never published anything. My life is full of “havent’s” or “haven’t yets”.
Somehow, though, I can’t shake this feeling, writing is what I’m supposed to do, all I want to do, part of who I am. It seems irrevocable. Hopefully someone will see that in me and give me a chance. Hopefully I will see that and give myself a chance.
It’s a lot easier to not write because I’m not good enough than to write something that sucks and see how far I still have to go.
There’s always that little nagging at the back of my mind, repeating nothingisevergoingtobegoodenough. I know I should try, make any attempt, as an act of rebellion.
Sometimes it’s easier to wrap myself in the words of others, in a blanket, with a cup of tea, allowing myself to hide in the layers of warmth and comfort, to hide away from my own words.
Am I hiding from “I’m not good enough,” or what I actually have to say?