Granted, I’ll admit lately I’ve been wondering about the quality of my works, looking at my previous works and wondering if they weren’t childish in some way or shape, and debating if that doesn’t mean that anything I make will seem as such, as if written by a child in crayon attempting to pretend its really the black ink of a fine tipped pen. Doubt, I find, is such an insidious thing that comes from the most unlikely, and rather odd places. Comments from friends, meant to be friendly or somehow just, rather than doubting a word of advice can twist in the shadows of ones mind, causing that leviathan to rise up from inside one’s self, only to gnaw and feast on what little confidence one might have as it whispers spiteful phrases and points to all those things you’ve done wrong, all those things you’ve noticed yourself, and then points to those that say you’re good, and reminds you, that perhaps they simply feel obligated to say as much, to say such empty praise to a friend to make sure they don’t feel, wronged, in some way. The empty polite words offered in a misguided kindness rather than in bright, painful truth.
Perhaps this simply means I should write more, write of the slaying of my own demons, those twisted things that whisper of horror and violence, the same things that grant me inspiration but cause me to feel that my stories, my poems and words lack the emotion needed to carry a true tale along. You see, I’ve debated on trying to submit some of my shorter stories, or writing new ones for submission, to those publications that might find them as I do, but I can’t help but fear that shadowed leviathan that dwells within me, that voice that tells me to doubt for I’ve no reason to believe. However, again, I’ve no recourse but to believe, but to proceed and walk forward for going back is not an option and well, if one story fails for a time I suppose one might say that failure is limited, it is not the fault of the publisher not finding it worthy, it something flawed that simply must be polished more I suppose.
True failure is not found in the lack of success, but in the lack of any attempt to succeed at all, and in the face of that knowledge, I suppose doubt is nothing more than a shadowed whisper upon the wind, barely there and nothing to pay heed to past the acknowledgment of knowing ones flaws, and attempting as best one may to correct these.