Recently, I’ve gotten myself back into the swing of things with my writing. Lately I’ve been finding myself more focused on my blog or my Hubpages, since they are my sources of exposure for my e-books and I figure if I keep them up with whatever meager earnings I make then I’ll get by. Before going on vacation, I had nearly convinced myself that this was it. I was terrible at writing, I have no fans of my work. I wondered why I was bothering, why I was wasting my time. I had nearly given up, I had no will to keep trying. Maybe I was a failure that should throw in my towel and find something else. This was it.
The idea of quitting writing stirred up feelings similar to that of breaking up with a significant other that you want to spend forever with. There’s trepidation. You want to do it, but you think it’s better to cut ties quick before anyone gets hurt. It might not be the greatest thing for you. Not now. Not ever. It might never go anyplace, but you can’t decide if you want to try or quit while you’re ahead. Or quit before you get ahead so you don’t have to worry about it going downhill because you haven’t had a chance to really go uphill at all yet. Maybe this was all a waste of a time, but it really felt good while it lasted.
This brought about all sorts of self-doubt. What am I going to do with myself? I’ve wanted to write since I was in the 3rd grade. I spent my life dreaming about that moment when I could go on a book tour and see people who enjoyed my writing, with maybe even a few people being touched by it. Writing was mostly for me; but it would feel good to have someone be changed for the better or to know that maybe they weren’t alone in how they felt all along. For me, writing was more than that though. It was my best friend when I didn’t have any. It was my best friend throughout my life. My writing was the only thing I could really ever count on. I could pretend I was popular or even remotely liked. I could pretend that maybe for one day, I had someone other than myself or my thoughts. My writing calmed me; it kept me sane when I would otherwise had gone crazy. I needed it. I need it. If I couldn’t write or if I didn’t write, I wouldn’t feel like me. I wouldn’t feel whole, and I would feel very much alone in this crazy place.
I wish I could say I prayed on this matter, but I’ve never much believed in the power of prayer. I did think about this. I thought about what I would be without my writing, if I just up and put up the white flag after all. I was reminded of how upset I was when someone said that being a stay at home mom took away a mother’s identity. It doesn’t. But if I quit doing this, I would lose my identity and I’m sure of that. With that in mind, I decided I wasn’t going to give up. If nothing else, I know I need to keep the dream alive for myself. This renewed energy pushed me, and I will keep pushing on. I just need to buckle down and stick to my guns. I can do this. I will do this. I won’t fail my writing like it hasn’t failed me.