Question, question, question. Am I good enough to write? Should I continue to fight my way through this over-populated path when I am not the best out there? Should I just stop? Night after night I sit alone and consider if I am travelling the wrong road, but then I remember, this is the only thing that has ever filled me with any kind of satisfaction. Does it matter that I am dyslexic, have limited vocabulary and am no better than you? If anything you would confidently stand up and shout that you are ten times as talented as me and that your novel has already been picked up by independent publishers and you’ve been nominated for another young author award. I’m already too old to be considered for your youth award. I have been where you are and I don’t envy it, as much as you can’t conceive not being the best in the room. Writing is an art form, a craft of self-expression, not a competition. We should support and encourage each other, not begrudge each other’s techniques and talent.
I will write, whether I have to get an unfulfilling job to buy my food, or not. I will write because I can only write. I was given this; the ability to find joy sitting alone tapping away trying to somehow create a coherence on the page that I am unable to create in my head or by mouth. Everyday is filled with moments of ideas of more to write. They swirl and distract and crash into each other like carnage from a tornado being violently thrown around. Being able to slow the tornado down and focus on that carnage is key. That is why I write, because if I didn’t, I would have a hurricane brain.