Don't Listen To The Doubters

Inspiration is great, but it can’t be depended upon. On the other hand, perspiration is something much more predictable. You show up, and it shows up.

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“Crap,” says The Little Doubter in my mind. He jumps right out and sits in the gold chair across from me. He is small and has a distinct resemblance to an imp. The unkind kind.

“F*** off,” I say.

You can’t be too easy on your subconscious.

“You’re writing crap,” The Little Doubter says. “This is all crap. You should hit delete. Delete the whole thing and give up writing. I hear they’re hiring at that hamburger place with the funny hats.”

“They all have funny hats.”

He slouches in the chair; he needs a shower; his clothes could use a good washing. I don’t like looking at him.

“The one with the funniest hats.”

“At least I haven’t given up,” I say.

“Let’s watch bad TV, eat ten desserts, drink until we can’t see, and just forget all about making these little marks on a blank page. You’re no good at it; you have a sweet tooth. I bought those cookies you love.”

True. This is why you have to watch yourself around your subconscious. They are tricky and they know you.”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

The truth is, I have to write. Writing, most days, gives me purpose, and it fulfills a need in me. I’d write even if I were never paid a cent.

I turn to tell him that I am going to write no matter what, but the yellow chair is empty. He gets me. He really does. Not this time though. Not this time.