I am beset by a minor, lingering illness this morning. The voice that says “You’ll never.”
You’ll never be published. You’ll never be good enough. You can barely even succeed in getting friends to read you—how do you expect that anyone else will? It’s a small voice, that mean friend in the head. Willful and nasty. But, fortunately for today, it is a voice faint enough to be pushed aside.
I disdain “poor me”; I hate it worst in myself. It is, to be coarse about it, the boil on the butt of emotional well-being, sprouted there through a combination of relentless brain activity and suppressed doubt and…okay this is key…the point where the new book is not sufficiently untangled and I haven’t gathered the strength to start marketing out the old one.
What’s it like, being one of those who are so convinced of their ability that they never stall and always move forward?
You’ve got me.
I am not a member of that tribe. I was not born with that unshakable-confidence-bone in my head. At least, mine is a very malleable one. As I’ve said ad nauseum here, the outside world and I are not altogether on the best of terms.
And so, dear me, let it go. That’s the message of the day. You’ll never is a self-fulfilling prophecy, you know that. You’ll never is always the threshold to some great idea, the pain before the birth. You’ll never is stupid and self-undermining. You know that. You do.
Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. You’ll feel better once you do.