How do you know that you should be doing something or that you are good at it without skipping straight to your death bed?
Who knows. It’s kind of like religion. How do you know which one to follow or to follow at all until you die and see what happens. Oh hindsight. Sweet, glorious hindsight, how you torment thee with your wicked ways. As I sit writing with my laptop resting on my bare thighs and I squeeze out another turd because I don’t like to waste time I wonder, what will become of me and am I wasting my time?
That, my friends, is the author blues.
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
Ernest Hemingway said that.
The only good thing about being a writer is that you get to escape into an imagination, leaving the terrible fact that you are a writer behind.
I said that.
Allen Ginsberg said, “To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.” I suppose, at the end of the day you just have to keep on going, develop skills, develop a thick skin, hope that one day someone notices you or if all comes to an end and you plunge into the bottomless pit of nothing beg, beg that you just wasn’t appreciated in your own time.
“Just keep swimming,” a fish in Finding Nemo said that.
Writer’s blues is more common than writer’s block, but we must beat on against the current and die with our imagination expelled, at the very least.