Diffident

I bought myself a pad of paper today, because I had not handwritten anything in awhile. Margaret Atwood told me to do it, so I though I should get at it. I do find something about being able to blather on on paper therapeutic. I found my good pen and started doing some background writing on the characters in my new stories. It turns out that Miranda’s mother is addicted to gambling, in case you’re interested.

Soon, my thoughts turned to my own problems. I mentioned in my first post of the year that I was doing this to calm my anxiety about striking off on my own and trying to establish a writing career. I don’t think that this has helped much, but I’ve decided that is because try my hardest not to talk about it. So I will:

This is hard. Not as hard as mining or helping NASA with their manned mission to Mars, but still hard. I’m new. I have no idea what I’m doing. Thankfully, some people were kind enough to look past my complete ignorance on how to write a proper cover letter a few months ago. Things are happening, but I feel as though it’s not REAL yet. I’m the type of person who thinks they should be busy up to their eyeballs all the time, and when I’m not I get really nervous.

I think that my real problem is that I see it all as an exercise in chasing the wind. I know in the back of my mind I am telling myself this will all be over in a year. After I have fluttered around breaking into a career but not quite gotten myself there, I will pack it all in and get a desk job somewhere. I think I feel guilty that I have made a go of it. I feel guilty because of the sacrifices my husband has had to make. I feel like I’ve wasted time. I feel like if I fail, that will be it, so I should not even try. Pathetic, eh?

I guess we all do it from time to time. I’m going to be better. Somehow.

So I have a few pages of handwritten stuff a lot like this. I don’t know if it’s helping. At least it’s out here now. This is what happens when terribly insecure people try to start their own business.

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