Thursday, August 20, 2009


After my last post, I started pondering a certain irony: the very thing that made me feel safest as a child also makes me feel the most insecure as a writer. The books that gave me comfort created a rather vicious inner critic. After reading so many wonderful books by gifted storytellers and wordsmiths, my critic loves to tell me that I will never be able to master my craft. She loves to say that calling myself a writer is an insult to those writers I admire most. She really is quite heartless, isn't she?

I suppose the universe enjoys irony. Doesn't it often seem that the very thing we love and cherish the most has the most power to destroy or paralyze us? Hmm. Must ponder this some more.

1 comment:

  1. Very good post and I have to agree with you. Crazy, is it not? Have a super weekend. :)