I wonder if all writers come to a point in their (invisible, allegedly nonexistent) careers where they wonder:
“Who am I kidding? I am no writer.”
Because I feel about an inch tall and I reckon I have reached it.
I have a tendency to keep these things in because who wants to read about my insecurities but I suppose I have reached a point where writing this down and having it in words staring accusingly at me from the screen will be some kind of masochistic catharsis.
I mean, what if I am kidding myself and have no business trying to be a writer? What if I cannot write at all and these constant rejections are simply assurances of that fact? The evidence of my inability to write something that people will take a risk on is undeniable.
Maybe I should have listened to that prof who told me I had no business writing.
Okay listen, I am not saying this to gain pity. It’s just that…I am tired? Maybe that’s it. And there’s no one around me right now who gets it so I figure the computer screen will do.
I am going to be horrified I wrote this in a little while. I am sure. I don’t like being this vulnerable to anyone but ah, damnit.
I should have done accounting or something. Heh.