Doubt is an ugly thing.
It’s there, in my mind, on the daily. Sometimes I wonder if I really have what it takes to be a writer. If I can really do it. Write a novel. A great novel.
But then I’m like, what does that even mean, “what it takes to be a writer”? It’s not as if I have to take an exam or pass a series of tests. Partake some sort of life threatening challenge, where after being left in the middle of the jungle with only a pen and a water bottle, I emerge victorious and am then finally, miraculously, declared an “Author” in front of the entire world.
So since there is no Hunger Games-esque test to complete before becoming an accomplished writer, (there is no test like that right guys? Am I not being told things?) why do I feel so unworthy?
And the biggest question?
Why do I feel like I have to prove myself to be an author? I love words and reading. I love writing, have ever since I was small and I continue to find great pleasure in it.
So why can’t I just continue to write and enjoy it and let all this damn doubt take a backseat.