I don’t even feel that I’ve been gone that long. But I have, and honestly, there is no excuse. Much of my time has been me trying to figure myself out. I have developed many ideas for fiction novels, and currently I am working on one that I am hoping to get published.

The one I had been working on is finished, a rough draft I will say. It stands alone in a folder, half of it revised and the other half waiting for me to finish them. It was a feeling I cannot describe, finishing the novel, something I’ve been wanting to do for so long and I did. And yet, I’ve almost lost my inspiration for the story. As I began on my trek on revising it, I somehow lost all that I cared about it.

It guess because it was a story that I almost forced myself through. I wasn’t ready to finish a rough draft, because my voice wasn’t yet well defined. I still listened to the world, expected myself to confine my words into understandable gibberish instead of letting them flow out of me. I should not care about what is said, nor what others would think of my rough draft, even the best author can create the worst novel ever read in their rough draft. Hence why we call it rough and why we revise.

Revising, I guess I feel, scares me. I am scared I don’t know where I will be going, that all I’ll do is completely rewrite my novel as if the rough draft was never there. But who am I to care about what happens? Is that not a part of the revision process? Am I not suppose to find my stories purpose in all the rubble I have created?

So why am I so scared to sift through it all?

What monsters will I find?

It’s as if I don’t feel creative enough to be able to do such a feat. That others may be able to, but I, cannot. I feel simply good at one thing, writing a rough draft, but after that, I fear. I fear that my finished product won’t be good enough. I fear that when it goes out there, no one will read it. I do not ask for a hoard of readers, only one, but what if every single person who reads it despises it?

Yet, wherever I write, so many people tell me that I am good.

But am I good at only short bursts? Would a novel drag on, would it die out within a flicker of a chapter? Where is all this doubt coming from?

I seem to believe that all others are better than me. And maybe that stems from things I have been through, things that have made me feel almost useless, worthless. But I am not so, I am better than that, I am capable of writing a novel and getting it published.

But would anyone want to publish my book?

With time, hopefully.

But first I must focus on finishing my novel. For if I finished it once, I can undoubtedly finish it again.


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