(The following is very stream-of-conscious.)
So, I’m reading Charlotte Street, by Danny Wallace.
It’s a fucking awesome book, and I’m not just saying that because it’s Danny Wallace who wrote it. I’m saying it because it seriously is one of the best things I’ve ever read. It’s Danny’s first novel, and he writes… dude, he writes. Of course he writes, otherwise I wouldn’t be reading his book. But he writes so compellingly and I keep wanting to sacrifice entire days just so I can read more of this book.
I was reading it early this morning, and I felt my heart sink to my chest because holy shitballs, I can not write this good. I felt like a hack, but I know I shouldn’t feel that way, because I know I can write and I can write pretty damn good. Even Danny fuckin’ Wallace himself thinks that!
But I felt so dwarfed. I felt like I was a little spec of dust on a bookcase at Waterstones, only there to be swept away and forgotten about.
It’s ridiculous really.
There are moments when I can convince myself that I’m really good at this. I’ll feel great and on top of the world, convinced that I can be everything I want to be.
And then there are moments where I just want to stop doing anything because I’m so convinced I suck monkeytits that I want to burn my own work, which is impossible because I can hardly burn e-books, right?
I’ve been told by one of my counselors that I get defensive about how good I write because I’m insecure.
Of course I’m insecure. Would you not be insecure after a lifetime of being told you’re only as good as your autism makes you?
You don’t get to take away the moments where I actually feel like I can be good. Like I am worthy of all this.
At the moment, that monkeytits feeling is overpowering me. I think I’ve become scared of writing anything outside of the stuff I put on here. My brain feels like it’s malfunctioning.
I don’t know anymore. I want to write! And I want to write good stuff! But most of all, I want to believe that what I’m writing is good enough.