WHAT IT MEANS TO WRITE
Like climbing a god-damn mountain. Hurts more than childbirth. Not enough hours in the day. Can’t type fast enough. Can’t keep up with what’s in my head. Can’t get what’s in my head onto paper.
You will fail.
Can’t find the right words. Can’t explain what I dream. Every day, someone else finishes a book. Gets an agent. Gets it published. Every day, it’s not me. This is stupid. I should quit. Spend more time with my kids. Get a real job.
You shouldn’t have started this.
Sudden flight. Words, flowing. The story, perfect and whole, flooding out of me. Yes. Yes! See? Not so hard, after all.
Then the plunge, swift spiral to the earth. Lower, to darker places. No way out of here. It’s not good enough. No one will like it. No one will read it.
You don’t know what you’re doing. Stop embarrassing yourself.
Write. I have to write. I will write for everything I can’t fix. For every kid whose suffering this world has forgotten. For the misfits, the damaged, the abandoned, the unloved.
What, now you’re Gandhi? *eyeroll*
I will write more. I will write faster. I will write better. I will not give up. Others have climbed this mountain. Others have made it to the top. I will, too.
You’re not strong enough. You’re not smart enough.
I’ll keep writing. I’ll get stronger. I’ll get smarter. This is the dream. This is what it takes.
Deep down, you don’t believe. You don’t believe you’ll succeed.
I don’t have to believe. All I have to do is write.