There’s no way to describe the mad scramble we sometimes put ourselves through for the sake of our writing, other than the truth. We love to write. And sometimes that means other parts of our lives suffer.
Then there are the times we suffer at the hands of our passion. Those days and nights when we read pages we’ve spent hours creating, and groan with disgust. Those are the hours we doubt our talent, filled with horror at the possibility that we may never arrive at the perfect expression of what we see and hear in our minds.
If only we could maintain a balance between neglecting everything and everyone while the muse sits on our laps, whispering in our ears, and the other extreme of pleading with her to visit us just once more.
No matter where we sit in the creative process today, we’ve all been at both extremes of feeling about our identities as writers.
Shall we go on, forging our way through denial to reach self-realization about why we write? Or shall we wimp out, moaning that the writer’s life asks too much of us? Complaining that it requires us to surrender too much of ourselves, to reveal our souls to an unbearable level? Crying that there’s too much to learn about our craft?
I say, “Why not go on?” Why not go on falling into the depths of fear over the level of our talent? Why not go on rising to the heights of discovery of what we are capable of mastering?
Why not continue creating everything we’re inspired to bring to life?
I really can’t think of any reason not to. And I can think of millions of readers who are waiting for what we have to offer.