The curse of self doubt

Why does such horrendous self doubt manifest itself when it comes to sending off a piece of work? Particularly when it’s a novel. Suddenly I question whether I’m capable of writing anything decent at all… then I don’t see any point in trying… and this time I have my children telling me to sit down and write… instead of which I’m on here ๐Ÿ™‚ Do other writers (although I cringe to call myself that) find they have moments when they wonder why they’re even bothering? Is it worth the effort, the thought, the hard work in actually getting words out of the brain and onto the page? Do you feel that you should give up but you can’t?

I can handle the rejection from an editor (I’ve had lots of practice at that) and I can even handle bad reviews (think my favourite is the one on my short story collection, Interludes, which says the only reason to read the book is to see how NOT to write short stories!) but it’s a lot harder to handle the self doubt, the self loathing, the utter conviction that everything you’re trying to do is a waste of time.

Inner demons are a bitch – I need an inner Buffy or an inner Constantine to deal with them once and for all. The pills help, but at the moment they’re making me feel very strange and vague and incredibly tired.

Meanwhile I continue to write because I have to, I just do! And when something’s finished I’ll send it off somewhere for somebody else to judge because I think, left to myself, I’d probably scrap a load of them.

If the room stops moving long enough, I might go and try doing some writing on Liberation Of Worlds. That’s the WIP I’m determined to push on with. It’s the second book in The Szuiltan Trilogy and at the moment I like it. A bit later on I’ll probably hate it, but that seems to be the pattern with me so I accept it and will do my best to work with it.

And if I end up begging on the street because it’s an easier way to make some money than writing, throw a few pennies my way. I might even write a story for you ๐Ÿ™‚

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