This week has been a rough one. It’s one of those weeks where life just keeps shoveling the crap on top as I try desperately to dig my way out only to have more crap flung in my face. It’s one of those weeks where you look back and ponder what you could have, should have, and would have done better. I’m clinging to the things that make me happy, but today I feel like a cat hanging on to a ceiling fan blade, trying not to get flung off.
It’s times like these that I cling to my writing, and after the ‘oh woe is me’ discussion I had with my mom last night I feel it’s the right thing for me to be doing right now.
Yes, I’m depressed, I doubt my abilities, and I often think of myself as a hack trying to make it among the truly talented, but if I allow myself to give up, to not even try, then that is exactly what I am.
I confessed to my mother that I felt I was talent-less, that I would never amount to anything. She reassured me that my talent was in writing, so long as I quit doubting myself. She told me to keep at it, even though it was hard, that my writing resonated with my emotions and touched the people who read it. I don’t know if that is true, but if I don’t keep trying, I will never know.
So my ceiling fan blade this week will be my writing, and I am hanging on for dear life.