If you opened me up like a fridge, you’d find a lot of bottles full of the cream of human confidence at the door. But if you moved these bottles aside, you’d find an empty jar shoved in the corner. It would be chipped and its contents long gone and unrecognisable.
This pretty wells sums up how I feel about myself as a writer.
There are days when the faith in what I do goes so deep, I’m giddy over the possibilities. And then there are days when the doubts fly like bullets and I’m on a stretcher and even the nurse is damn ugly and wants me to suffer.
Why this anchor that at times can ground me to the writing life and at other times bury me under the ground?
I suppose all writers go through this no rhyme, no reason of the ancient kind.
Schisms of the writing life. Perhaps it forces me to be a better writer. If you swing between such polarities, then maybe the chances for improvement are much better.
Whatever the case, I prefer the deep faith. But I realize it could be the ardent doubts that keep me writing.