When you’ve been (objectively) incapacitated to write for a whole week, after just having returned to your manuscript from Procrastination Era, a sort of panic hits you and incapacitates you even more. The philosophical side of you emerges and the different thoughts that cross your mind paralyze you in such a way that you begin to look like a handicapped Yoga amateur, swaying in a rocking chair while starring blankly ahead. You may look peaceful but there’s a war going on in your mind, while your fears and doubts are having a blasting party which you cannot silence.
‘Am I a writer or just a wannabe?’
‘Am I too lazy to get out of my comfort zone to finish a project or do I just lack the calling for it?’
‘What do I need: ambition, self-discipline or more determination?’
‘Do I like writing, or am I only pretending?’
This constant babbling in your head sounds like a broken radio on the background of you cooking, you watching a movie, you reading, you taking a bath, you going to work, you breathing. You silently live with it, hoping not to go mad and at the same time looking for a way out; you know the only way to get out is to pick up the pieces and start again.
And you do that (when your objective incapacitating circumstances let you) but still think about the one question, that’s causing all the nerve-wracking babbling of your troubled mind: ‘Am I a fraud?’
You start writing your story, from where you left it (a millionth time) maniacally hoping you’re not.
‘Do all writers think like this or am I a psychiatric case?!’
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