I’ve Desecrated Writing
Just 6 posts into my writing experiment, doubt poke its head out of its hiding place and waved at me enthusiastically.
“Are you sure you should do this? You’re really not much of a writer,” it said.
I rolled my eyes.
“Of course I know that, but no one was born a good writer. You have to write your way to becoming better. Not even good,” I muttered under my breath.
“And that’s where I’m headed — Betterland,” I added, just to be clear. My lack of confidence is overwhelming.
“You don’t have much content to offer though,” it insisted.
“Well, I know that as well. Why else would I be writing about you?” I snapped.
Doubt hissed and glared at me, its naked brows twitching and tiny nostrils flaring. Then it dissolved into my brain matter, where it lurked, like it always does.
I desecrated the art of writing
I don’t know how writers churn out posts every day. I don’t know how people write for a living.
The more I write, the more I realize I don’t know. The more I read, the more I realize I don’t write well.
