I’ve lost confidence entirely. Can I write? Can I tell stories that interest people?
I’ve been doing it my entire life. It’s been my only real dream.
But, sometimes, the brain rebels.
Doubt seeps in.
It rarely has to do with ability.
Most often outside circumstances gum up the wonderous works.
Can I do this?
Should I even try?
What if I’m not good enough?
What if my friends and family were just boosting my ego when they said I could?
What if the strangers who complimented me just wanted something from me?
Has the praise been honest?
Do I have the dedication?
Can I do it all? The day to day expectations along with this dream I’ve been hiding?
What do I do?
How do I do it?
In a field that relies soley on what comes out of your mind…
The “on your own” industry.
Am I strong enough?
When the flow and flair are raging up above, it feels possible. Feels probable. Feels inevitable.
Then the slump.
The void created by external chaos and lack of confidence blocks all original emotional outpourings.
It all just stops.
There’s nothing there anymore.
Where did it all go?
Months ago I couldn’t sleep because my mind wouldn’t stop producing.
I would lift my head, half asleep, and jot.
Now there is nothing to be extracted by force.
Can I do this?
The answers are undoubtedly internal.
No one has ever been able to bring me back to life.
That. Well, that. Thats an inside job.
So now what?
I guess I have to dig deeper.
Find the gear that’s sticking.
Fix it near the clock that’s ticking.
I have to find myself in there.
That’s the trouble.
That’s the issue.
It all just works when I’m inside and not out.
When the outside is just noise.
When the world is just a racket.
When I’m me and it is it.
I guess I’ve got it.
I’ve solved it.
Here we go again on our own.