There have been a number of concerns preying on my mind of late.
The most prevalent is the worry that my work isn’t good enough at the moment.
That’s OK, as long as I know that it will improve–by hard work and perseverance–eventually. The main niggle that’s eating away at me at the moment is that my writing won’t get better. That I’m stuck on an endless plateau with no possible heights to scale because I don’t have the equipment, or the vision to recognise the undiscovered country.
It’s hard to maintain determination as the rejections pile up. And there is no good news: it’s tough in every field. You have to be on your game, and get the right piece of work to the proper person at the opportune time.
I’m in a funk. It’s affecting my ability to study for Friday, and get the last of my written work done. I find it hard to care about it any more, which is pretty unusual for me. I can’t remember the last time I was this crippled.
This is not a whinge. I don’t expect people to feel sorry for me. This is reality of what I have chosen to do. I find it hard to be sympathetic to myself, after all.
I will get over this. There is no other option.
The only way is up.