tonight my soul has been pricked.
for years i have avoided the whole “writing business” business. i’ve written loads of poetry, several kid’s books, and started a great many other works that i have not yet finished. but the process of trying to pitch myself is somewhat overwhelming, and i give up before i begin.
i think it’s the daunting pressure of greatness hovering over my ego that does me in. i worry that i won’t be taken seriously. that my work will not be good enough. i worry that i am not great.
not everyone is going to be great. i know that is not the whole of the writing world. but i feel i have a story for someone, somewhere, that will move them to tears, or quicken them to action, or spur them into a new way of being. i feel i have something magical for someone, some magic boost of energy or hidden weapon they need, and i worry that i will fail to shine the light in the right direction. my world – inside my mind – is full of mystery, magic, shimmering life, and impossible realities, and i worry that there is no way i can possibly translate what my experience is to another through a measly work of fiction. words fail me, and i cannot always paint the picture i wish to share.
but then i remember. not everyone is great. not every writer is brilliant. but the STORY may still be brilliant. with all my short comings, insecurities and procrastinating tendencies, i am just a tool the story uses to make itself known to the world. and so i tell myself:
less ego…more writing.