I’m always making something. If I’m not writing, I’m quilting, crocheting, or doing some kind of craft. I can’t just sit and watch a movie, or one of the TV shows in my queue, I have to do something with my hands. My dining room table is covered in baby presents I’m making for a co-worker, and a quilt I’m making for a friend.
My day at work yesterday sucked out every ounce of cope and energy I had, compounded by the need to run a few errands when I got off. So I watched a couple episodes of Grantchester, and I made key chains on my desk.
Most of these are for someone else (shhhh….don’t tell) but I made a different kind for myself too. When mine was all finished, I added two engraved metal charms back to back.
One says imagine. The second one says believe.
I have no trouble at all imagining different worlds, different societies and the people who live there. None. I have more ideas lined up in my head than I will ever have time to write.
As I watch some friends seriously consider giving up writing, while other friends soar to heights I’ve never dreamed of–I’m having a little trouble with the believe part of the equation.
And it’s not that I don’t believe in what I’m writing, or that I don’t think I’m a good writer, with worthwhile stories to tell. I do. But the universe keeps sending me secret messages, many of them wrapped in silence, that all revolve around “you’re not good enough, you’re not special enough, and who do you think you’re kidding.”
Things aren’t helped along by real life. I lost the entire month of April to fighting off plague 2.0.5, dealing with the aftermath of the hail storm that destroyed my car, and still having to show up at the dayjob. The less said of April the better.
Writer doubt is the worst doubt. It’s evil and insidious, and creeps into how you see yourself, and your work. Trapped inside your own head, those doubts eat away at any confidence you’ve managed to build up.
I want to burn all those doubts with fire, especially the ones planted by others. I want to rage at false perceptions about what I write. I want to rage about friends giving up because the genre world and marketing is so totally fucked for women.
I won’t, but I want to. Oh do I want to.
I’ll keep writing, and look at my symbolic little charm, and believe.