I build up my expectations for what I’m supposed to write; what’s supposed to flow out of me naturally and with unmatched novelty. But guess what. I get stuck. It’s not my lack of ideas, but the unwillingness to devote my entire attention to them. It’s not even unwillingness, it’s the unconscious telling me that I don’t deserve to express myself any fucking way that I want.
That is one of the most harmful things I could possibly do to myself. And what’s worse? I do it all the time and pretend not to care.
I have talent. So what? Why do I let that stop me? Will I embarrass anyone who has less talent than myself? I might inspire them to do better and act in a way conducive to building their own self esteem while I gain a sense of fulfillment.
Wow, what a crime that would be! Displaying my talent and knack for uncovering emotion could cripple the egotistical, and wouldn’t that be a shame?
Of course there are better practitioners than myself. But they didn’t reach that level of their craft by undermining their own efforts at every turn.
Frankly, I’m amazed that I haven’t completely sworn off this whole thing called writing.
But you know what? It’s not my decision and it never has been.