Today I sit here, like any amateur writer trying to prove her worth by penning her thoughts.
I realize that my previous posts show a different side of me--strong and confident.
But in truth, I'm not.
I fear. In this final stretch of Nanowrimo, I fear that my story is worthless. Inaccurate. Riddled with plothole within plothole. Illogical. Down in the depths of the Tartarus of Suck. (Greek myths, anyone?)
There are moments, glimpses, where I find faith. I find the story that I'm trying to tell.
But right now, I can't see the forest from the trees. I am afraid, so afraid. Fear truly is my greatest enemy--but so am I. I am my own enemy.
I am close--so close from finishing. I just need to finish this crap I started. Sit down. Stare at the computer. And write. Writewritewritewrite.