An innate discontentedness. Self-consciousness or lack of confidence rising up, telling me I don’t have the discipline, the talent or the skill to do this thing I’m doing. I can play at it, hope and pretend that I can, but in truth, the results will fall flat. I will have wasted five years of my life in a fantasy.
There is a period of getting past that. The will to write must push one past that moment of diffidence or nothing will get done.
It is the transformative struggle. The epic match between wills: innermost and social programming. That which tells you the reality of your work mattering in the vast ocean of manuscripts already out has the same odds as hitting the lottery, or being struck by lightning.
That one in a million who wins the struggle and still stands is the one who accepts for better or worse, that she is a writer regardless. Yes that ocean is there, but she has seen beyond it and moved in the realm of suspended disbelief. The work, this work here, or that one, will be published.