I’ve been writing this novel on and off for the past few years, since I’m always fearing that it’s never going to be good enough. I keep writing it and then I’ll stop, look it over and get anxious about what others would think when I actually finalize it. I already know that I won’t please everyone, but what if I do that…?
What if the story pleases absolutely no one?
It’s a random bet that writers put on the line when we publish a piece of ourselves out there. It drives me insane that I can’t stop my insecurities from clawing at my self-esteem and practically beating myself up before someone else even can. It’s exhausting, and yet, I keep coming back to this cycle, because I want to write this story.
It’s a book that I’ve never seen on the shelves of a bookstore, and no matter how many historical tags I put into a search engine to find a book that could be written within the same vein of it. This book does not exist, because it is here in my own mind, and no one else can write it, except….
I keep writing.