I can't stop thinking about it so I know it's what I should be doing.
But I also can't seem to bring myself to a place where I can do it consistently.
I am one who wastes my talents more than I use them.
And I can't find the root of the problem.
Most days, I blame my stifling environment. But really, it is no one's fault but mine. If I am not dedicated now, I can't expect dedication to magically appear.
I surround myself with people who are very serious about their work and their art, but I can't seem to pick up one shred of that inspiration.
I think the truth of the whole thing is that while I love my words and trust my ability, I am mortally afraid of how good I may be. Or how bad I may be.
I want to write an amazing novel.
I have been inspired by Toni Morrison and Zora Neale Hurston and Lucille Clifton and Ru and Monique and Amber and my mother and these generations of women who have created these big giant lives that I just cannot live up to.
I know that the most amazing works are those created without concern for whether or not they are any good or how the world will receive them, but the fear of putting my blood onto paper and having it be rejected is more that I am currently ready to handle.