Doubting Thomases

I write a piece and I am mostly satisfied with it.Like the first 24 hour period since it was posted, I don’t hate it. Then – just like the morning after, the dreaded honeymoon period is over.

I’m sad, I am a horrible writer and I’m never posting another blog piece. Pointless waste of time and energy so why even do it. When you are convinced that you suck at everything, life is a box of arsenic-laced chocolates.

That is my pervasive mood today and if you are happy, please keep it to yourself. Good for you- somebody needs to be a Pollyanna but it’s not going to be me.

It hit me like the proverbial rock when I realized that I’m not even good at my hobby.

I piece together my writing times between the wants/needs/demands of the others that occupy my universe. How is anyone supposed to get a book written?

I continue to look for a suitable subject to write about. By that I mean anything at all but I’m empty as usual. In Eighth grade, it’s easy to impress your peers.

Adults are much harder and better at deception. “Oh, we loved that story but it wasn’t the kind of thing we want the kids to read .”

The realists would answer ” We just want them to read .”In this Age of Enlightenment via the socially corrupt stream of information called the internet, that is almost unheard of. Books that sit lovingly on my shelves are no longer valued, the stories within die on the pages. Why read the book when you can do a quick search to discover it’s contents?

I realize that I am a vanishing breed. That is one of the saddest realizations I’ve ever had.

I used to get panicked by the thought that there wasn’t enough time to read every book I wanted to. My shelves are full of “tomorrows.

For some odd reason or another, I keep writing. On a smartphone, tablet, or desktop instead of on paper but I don’t stop.