That to begin writing is so difficult, that I hesitate like this teetering on its precipice as if dreading a plunge into icy water, must surely bode ill for any future writing career. But that’s how it feels. And I must be honest. I am standing at the edge of a vast sea. I can’t see a bottom. I can’t even see a far shore. The way west is only blue and breathless, and I’ve suddenly forgotten how to swim.
Sure, “it’s just humiliation.” But how much of that can you really take.
Perhaps what they don’t tell you when you’re young, and this maybe-truth is still forming kind of half-cooked in my brain, is that anything worth doing is unbelievably hard. A scary thought follows: my years-long soul search, meandering march into the unknown, the turning, the burning, and the turning back, are these only symptoms of youthful hedonism?