Writer’s Doubt

Lately, I've been reading and writing a lot but not on this blog. That's because the schedule of examination and interview for a promotion at the Forum Dimensions, the university publication (wherein I am an editorial assistant) is tomorrow. And in order to outlast the grueling competition with my fellow writers, which are my friends and greatest rivals, I have to review my tools and practice a little.

Last night, I had been questioning myself if I have what it takes to be a writer. That kind of tête-à-tête happens when I'm in my bed, covered with sheets and enclosed gratifying solace. Those kinds of moments when a certain weight is on your chest and self-doubt takes over. Then I remember those times when I look intently at the monitor, my fingers ready to attack the keyboard and everything's settled yet my mind is totally blocked out and I couldn't find the right words to start a single sentence that would make the simplest of sense of what I was trying to express. And when I could finally scribble a little, another voice in my head says, "Well, that's a ridiculous sentence pattern, change it….er…this plot is totally crappy and your description...revise." It's as if I have my very own goblin editor inside my head.


I doubt myself. I doubt my writing ability.


But what make this condition spark off? Here's what I'm thinking tracing back from my know-how.


Rejection


During press-work, my editors would pore over my piece of writing, pass judgment and sometimes when luck strikes, they accept it, and sometimes when hard luck has it, they reject it, or if they feel generous enough, ask me to revise it over and over until the article pull off its superlative degree of publish worthiness. After all these years, I know the rejection is part of writing.


Fear


I don't want to imagine that people wouldn't be interested in my work again. That all those hours spent in front of my computer will be like rubbish being trucked off into oblivion. The things I want to say will fall into deaf ears and will dissipate into nothingness. I fear that people won't even get a chance to dislike what I write.


Nay-sayers


That dispiriting air in the face of my pal, my mom's litany of how poor writers become and all of those people who thinks I'm insane to apply so much of my time and effort on such rubbish.


I know I'm not banished in planet Jupiter. Never ever, well, not yet. But why do I feel as if I'm not here, not in my element, not in those times where writing is a joy, a sudden euphoria, a beautified chocolate.


Opening my memory box, picking up my journal written a few years ago, I can do cartwheels. Seeing how I improved after a few years I feel content. Such is a much needed ego inflator.