I counted the pennies in my purse pocket.
Eighteen. At least it's an even number.
I wonder what I could get with eighteen pennies.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
I just want to write.
I just want to write and write and write and write some more. I would love to be a published author, but how the hell does that happen?! I don't even know if I'm good enough for any of that. Most likely not, but I wrote one book, a small one, sort of, and a few people loved it. And it really boosted my confidence, but I resort back to wondering if I'd even have what it takes to write a book or multiples of books. Who knows? I would love to, that's for sure.
I just wish there was some easy way to become an author. Or to know if it's even worth my time to continue contemplating being an author.
I have too many doubts. And maybe that's what's holding me back from moving forward, that and money, and total failure and rejection. I understand there would be plenty of people that wouldn't like it, or that wouldn't give me the time of day, but I don't think I could deal with rejection and failure that much. I don't know, maybe that's why I don't pursue this, because I know, I won't be able to handle it? But another part of me tells me I could deal with it. I could walk away with my head held high with a few cuts and scrapes. But I could do it.
I don't know. This is my incessant ranting about something that when I come to the end, I will, still, be in the same place. Square one, wondering if I could become a writer.
Oh, well. Maybe I'll write on here? Maybe? I have no idea. But then there is fear that someone will stumble upon this and take what I've written and use it to their advantage and become a hot shot author. Oh the possibilities of horror rearing its ugly head at me.
Maybe, just maybe, I'll rant on here. I'll just let what's in my mind out. Here.
Well, here goes nothing.
I just wish there was some easy way to become an author. Or to know if it's even worth my time to continue contemplating being an author.
I have too many doubts. And maybe that's what's holding me back from moving forward, that and money, and total failure and rejection. I understand there would be plenty of people that wouldn't like it, or that wouldn't give me the time of day, but I don't think I could deal with rejection and failure that much. I don't know, maybe that's why I don't pursue this, because I know, I won't be able to handle it? But another part of me tells me I could deal with it. I could walk away with my head held high with a few cuts and scrapes. But I could do it.
I don't know. This is my incessant ranting about something that when I come to the end, I will, still, be in the same place. Square one, wondering if I could become a writer.
Oh, well. Maybe I'll write on here? Maybe? I have no idea. But then there is fear that someone will stumble upon this and take what I've written and use it to their advantage and become a hot shot author. Oh the possibilities of horror rearing its ugly head at me.
Maybe, just maybe, I'll rant on here. I'll just let what's in my mind out. Here.
Well, here goes nothing.
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