I have written.
For the first time in months have written something more than a grocery list.
It felt good.
I sat down to type and there it was nice, neat and fast. A few quick little edits and I had something workable. I really liked it. I saved it to draft and moved on. Next, I got started on a fluffy little filler piece. Something nice and bloggy.
I got about half way done with that. A good start for returning from a long absence. I wanted to keep going but, I had an early start to a long day in a few hours. So, feeling quite pleased with myself, I turned in. I lay there for a few minutes listening to a podcast that I had been meaning to catch up on, waiting for sleep to catch up with me.
That’s when it crept in. That feeling I had forgotten about. That doubting little piece of crap feeling I always get when I try to put myself out there in public. That whiny little voice proclaiming that everything I think and feel is trite bullshit. That I am nowhere near as clever as I think I am (which admittedly could be true but highly unlikely). That whispering coward telling me that they’re all going to laugh at me.
I strongly suspect that this voice is some bastard cousin of the other voice. The one that keeps telling me that it would be all right if I only had just one drink. We already know that voice is a lying prick.
I lay there floating in my little eddy of self-doubt, listening to my cowardice echo around the inside of my head, drowning out the story of a sleepy little desert community being piped in through the headphones. I got very little sleep, and barely dragged myself through the day; and when finally I slumped into my chair, full of exhaustion and loathing, I realized something.
I don’t give one turd what that jackass in my head has to say on the subject.
Now I return to the keyboard, because it doesn’t matter if I have doubts. What matters is I have written, for the first time in months.
It felt good.