I don't know what it is nor do I understand it - this demon of self-doubt. I was cruising along, making a great deal of production, research - managed to get out a novella in record time - and then I hit it, like a car wreck. Suddenly I can't write any more because I have no stories that are ready (have a finished outline for). Suddenly I find myself wasting my time away each day watching tv shows or listening to an audiobook on how to study better "for research." Then comes along this tiny morsel of doubt, crawling into a minute crevasse in the armor I attempted to built up, like acid eating away at the marrow of my writing.
Then, just when I think, "here we go again" (I think it's terribly disappointing that I can recognize the feeling now, but still can't do anything about it when it comes), in walks another story idea, propping up my ego, just hinting (indirectly) at the possibility that I might have an inkling of talent, that I might still be able to do this thing.
I get out my trusty calculator and do some quick math - again. $150k. That's my golden ticket; that's my chocolate bar. It's all I need to retire and live the life of my dreams. I DON'T EVEN NEED TO MAKE ANY MONEY AT WRITING!!!! EVER!!!! But that does not sit well with my psyche for some reason. No, it keeps telling me, trying to convince me: you are not a success unless you have made money; you need to make Stephen King money, or Koontz money, or Grisham money. Hell, you need to at least make Hocking money, right?
At this point, I don't know who will win this war. I guess we will see if my books ever actually make it onto Amazon. We will see where I'm at in 9.1 years, when I'm scheduled to retire. I know I won't stop learning. And I still can't figure out why that's a bad thing - retire when I'm 45, live in a pickup truck in the woods, spend my days taking long walks, reading books, listening to lectures and studying the bible. How could that be a bad life? Yet, it's there - nagging. Telling me that my choices in life are simply illegitimate. I don't have a wife and kids, I don't have a mortgage payment, car payments, a career, etc. But, what a minute. Isn't that the freaking point? Isn't that the reason to adopt my desired lifestyle in the first place? I had all that other crap and it's just that - worthless crap. It's a bucket of crabs. Who wants that? I know, lots of people do, apparently. But why should I be criticized for breaking free from that bucket if I can? Deep down I know what my problem is; I'm listening to the crabs. I've made the break, or at least I'm at the rim of the bucket, looking out over the side, and yet here I am listening to the crabs under me. She's telling me that life outside the bucket is no good, not legitimate, no a worthy life.
A better question should be: why doesn't she want me to leave?
Maybe she's a true believer. She knows life in the bucket is nothing but misery, but who's to say that life outside the bucket is a bed of roses? Maybe she has scummed to the notion that misery loves company. She has wasted her life in the bucket (kids, family, husband, all for what) and can't fathom anyone else, especially one of the crabs in her bucket finding genuine happiness in anything else besides what she agrees with. Maybe this crab simply can't live without misery, without controversy, without drama. I really think it becomes a drug for those who are perpetually miserable. They seem to have lived with and in misery for so long they know nothing else. I simply don't know.
My problem is: I'm still listening to the crabs.
My solution: Listen to something (or someone) else.
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