Who am I to want to be a writer? And who am I to think other people will be interested in what I write?
These thoughts plague, taunt and cajole me into doubt. And it’s this seed of insecurity that burrows in me like one of those creepy insect-bots from sci-fi films.
But not to worry, I’ve had practice with the damn thing. So here’s what I know:
I suck at writing. S – U – C – K. Do you hear me?!
I SUPER SUCK!
I start here because that’s what the fear is telling me anyway. And since I’m a lover, not a fighter, baby, why not agree with it?
Also, the moment I think I’m good at writing is when things get all jammed up for me, like in a Chinese finger traps.
So I humble myself and fumble and bumble with words because that’s what a writer does. I make errors and create run-on sentences and say “and” too much and don’t use commas when I should and break the rules because that’s who I am.
I’m a writer, baby! Through and through. That’s me. How about you?