As I wrote below, I do not consider myself a professional writer. In fact, some days I do not even consider myself a mediocre writer. Nonetheless, I hoped somewhere deep in my self-centered psyche that starting a blog would assuage those anxieties and confirm my writerly-ness.
After all I must be a writer...I cannot help but write - on the train, while I teach, in meetings, at dinner. My hand is ever moving, my brain ever cogitating.
Unfortunately today is one of those days that I feel completely certain that I am a sub-par writer and therefore a sub-par human being. After all, I don’t even have a genre... I don’t know what I am writing.
This week in my quest to be prolific I have written an awful mess of musings on a prompt from Writer’s Digest. Thus discouraged, I attempted a poem about the color chartreuse...need I say more?
And then tonight, I felt the urge to locate and join a writing group. I sat down at the computer eager to connect with other creative minds, to be inspired, encouraged..told that everything is going to be alright.
Instead, I feel like I’ve hit my head against a glass wall I did not know was there. Everyone is connected, everyone has fees, everyone knows what they are working on, has a purpose and direction.
And I standing on the outside looking in. Knocking on soundproof glass.
Looking, I am sure, like an idiot.
This is undeniably a depressing (and poorly written) post but perhaps somewhere there is another dejected writer bemoaning their inadequacies...to them I would say, “I feel your pain. You are not alone. We’ll make it somehow.” or some other inane verbiage that would convince us both that becoming a writer is not beyond our grasp.
