You guys? I kind of feel like crying. I’ve skirted around the issue for some time now, and this month just kind of brought it out to the forefront. I’ve been ignoring a very important part of myself. In fact, I’ve been ignoring it so vigorously in hopes that it will…just kind of fade away. That it’ll be a part of me that I’ll remember once was. And a part of me that I won’t miss.
But I’m lying. To you and to me. Because that part of me hasn’t faded away. And I do miss it. I have missed it. I would miss it. But for some inexplicable reason, I can’t bring myself to face it.
I’m not writing.
Not here. Not there. Not anywhere.
I second guess myself. I think too much and get too bogged down. I forget to turn off my [not so good and often wrong] editor. I panic that it’s all stupid. I worry. What if all the work is for nothing. What if I spent my whole life only wanting to be a writer and never actually become one. What if my entire education ends in the tragic tale of failure.
Because right now? I’m a failure. And a liar. And not a writer. Not a writer…not a writer.
Once upon a time I found the required energy and motivation to work full time, plan a wedding and write an entire novel in just four months. And now? I can’t bring myself to do anything with it. Fear is stopping me. My errors and mistakes are stopping me. I flip flop with the tense. I question the plot. What if it’s totally stupid. What if people what the heck I wrote it for; why I wasted my time. I can write, maybe. As for making it something suitable for someone in any kind of writing profession to view? I can’t do that. I’m scared to do that. No, terrified.
I don’t have the time.
The office isn’t finished.
It’s all, pardon my french, bullshit. If I wanted to do it, I would. Wouldn’t I? Couldn’t I?