I can’t write.
I’ve been afraid of it for days.
I open my word document, stare at the blank page begging to be filled. I open my novel, stare at the first words. Then I realize the sheer impossibility that those words will ever be the right ones, and I can’t stand the sight of my own writing.
I am a perfectionist, and I despise the imperfection in my own writing. My very first novel was a tattered notebook (written when I was about nine years old), and there were times even then when I would hate the sight of my own writing. And now, seven years later, staring at a computer screen, I’m not any better. I can’t do this. I’m not capable of carrying such a rich tradition, the tradition of human expression, on my weak shoulders.
I am still struggling, still scared.
But I am still writing.