Ever since the beginning, there has been one long standing passion that never left me. There were days or years of neglect and there were days or years of excess, but not once have I ever stopped. Every writing has this problem and this gift. I know this. But, today is one of those days that I’m wondering how talented I am really.
We’re having slight financial issues. Not the kind that leave us really tight, but enough to make me wish I had a job to help lighten the financial load. But, my husband has a great emotional need for me not to work. It’s because of that that I’m not pushing the issue anymore. This means I have more time to write and more time to pursue my writing.
It also gives me more time to question my own literary worth.
Not that I think I’m the next Jane Austen. I’m not. Maybe the next Stephenie Meyer or Carrie Ryan or something, but not Jane Austen.
Anyway, my writing defines me. It defines me so much that now I’m fearing how little I’ve achieved and how dreary the future looks. And then I remind myself what other writers go through:
Of course, Neil Gaiman and other writers speak truth in this comment. It’s just rough trying to get through the hurdles and walls that I build myself against myself.