She wrote because her words were all she had. There was no peace until she had expended the thoughts somewhere other than herself. She knew she would never be a great writer. She knew she would never string a sentence together with such rhythmic beauty as Toni Morrison and she might never conjure a story as haunting as Jane Eyre but her words were all she had. And like any artist, her creativity must be purged from her very being. Sitting idle and allowing those words to fester would do her far more harm than putting out a love story that had no ending, and that many might not care for.
Yet here she was in the wrong time, in the wrong place, exactly where she was meant to be.
They call it Imposter Syndrome.
At least I am pretty sure that’s what the kids are calling it.
I scribbled the words above months ago in the throes of my millionth rewrite for my very first novel. I had sat down one day and had finally said fuck it. After years of convincing myself that my writing wasn’t good enough or up to par or readable, I sat down and wrote a story. A novel. Albeit a short one, still I wrote a damn novel!
I had no idea what I would write or where it would go I simply let my hands flow over the keyboard. Words poured out of me that I didn’t know existed. I wrote thousands of words a day and then only wrote one or two in the following weeks. I had one intention that got chucked to the curb somewhere between I don’t know why I keep writing and I am so fucking proud of myself.
That’s perhaps the life of a writer I guess. You will never truly be rid of the notion of imposter syndrome. It’s impossible to not have doubts. The constant fear that your work, your words are pure shit comes with the territory. And they very well could be. But to one, maybe even some it could be the story they were looking for.
And like the little engine that could a year later my very first novel came to be.
So in case, you needed to read it: WRITE THE DAMN BOOK!
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