I’m totally, kind of, like, maybe confident in my writing.

I am confident in my writing.


Some days I feel as though I could write a best seller, no sweat. I could finish my novel, polish it up, and send it in. Other days, none of my words make sense. My ideas fight to be expressed, but only jumble on the page.

Blank pages look so innocent that scribbling on them seems cruel. My pen scrawls across the page, leaving the the words to fend for themselves. My muse is down—no editing facilities are there to offer bandages or anesthetic. The words limp about, searching for missing limbs. Some lie there without moving. On the bottom of the page, the word finis centers itself, clutching a white flag in its serifs.

I try, fail, try again, fail again, try a third time, and limp on. Why am I telling you this? Because sometimes my writing feels stiff, pompous, and mediocre—and because these complaints make me realize that it isn’t all so bad. The sun comes out from behind the clouds, and I remember the poems I wrote in high school, the articles I published, and the encouraging notes on my essays.

I can write. My fiction class is a blessing. Even if my stories are torn apart, I trust that my fellow students will be gracious but tough.


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