Date: Sep 9th, 2007 3:53:17 pm - Subscribe
Mood: despondent
iMood: that shade of gray-green the clouds turn right before the hurricane hits

There is an awkward sort of paralysis that grips me when I engage in any sort of dialogue - however innocuous or well-intentioned - about writing. More specifically, my writing.
When I am asked if I write because I have something to say, regardless of my outward answer to the question, I immediately become unable to write anything without the snide voice of my inner critic accusing me of being highbrow and elitist.
When I am asked if I write for the imagined money it could bring, to which I always respond no, I begin to feel overwhelmed and a bit breathless at the thought of being a starving artist for the rest of my short, pain-filled life - or worse, becoming hugely successful off a novel I will never follow up, and feeling the whole time as if I never deserved it.
When I sit down at my keys, peruse my current list of ideas and try to leave the lines open for my Muse to drift by and point me in the direction I need to go ... the channel is inevitably filled up with static, white noise that tricks me into hearing tiny voices whispering about how pointless it all is, how if I don't have anything to say and I don't expect to make any money, then why am I wasting precious time even pretending to be a writer?
If there were a royal court of some kind, I believe I would be the Queen of Self-Sabotage. I would be shadowed always by my advisors, Doubt and Inferiority, and I would wander restlessly through the halls of my ivory tower, staring forever at the portraits of everyone who was braver or smarter or more determined or more persistant than me.
And still, I go on. In the face of all reason, all practicality, all evidence in support of the futility of my actions, I keep writing, or trying to. Ideas keep flitting through my dreams, chemistry and relationships and characters still creep to the forefront of my thoughts, just waiting for their chance to be shaped and solidified and made real.
But I cannot define why.
I cannot defend agasint the subtle acid rain whisperings of Doubt and Inferiority, which slowly erode and reshape the tentative manifestations of thought even as I struggle to bring them into being. But still I try to write.
And I cannot define why.

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