I promised myself I would write.
Now I’m doubting the words coming out on the page. Not just the words, I doubt my own thoughts. When you think about it, really I’m doubting myself. What if I’m not good enough, not special enough, not unique enough?
What is enough?
I always thought writer’s block happened to others, not me. I thought it was a lack of ideas, possibly indecisiveness. Maybe it’s really fear—fear that I’m not really good; not that smart, not that talented.
Everything I write falls flat in my head. All I hear is melodrama. My words are all trite drivel. I start anew. Look, a fresh page. Now I stare into the emptiness, wondering what to write. I chase the thoughts across the deserted playground in my brain, but they’re faster than me. Soon I grow tired. I stop, double over with a stitch in my side, breathing in and out, ignoring the faint wheeze in my chest.
Sheepishly, a few ideas crawl toward me. They’re too slow to run. These thoughts present themselves to me, feeble and obviously flawed. Nobody wants them on their team. I don’t want them. But they are all I have.