So today I thought I deal with the biggie, the one faced by millions of writers and from which all other insecurities stem from--being a hack.
hack writer - a mediocre and disdained writer
It's that whole mediocre bit that gets me. Writers spend most of our time alone, hacking (;)) away at words in the dark confines of our writer hobbit holes, hoping that what we're putting together is awesome and will wow the literary world. Or at least our chosen corner of it.
But no matter how many words I write, no matter how many new worlds, or new characters, I can't help that fear that it's all lacking. That instead of flinging words of wonder out into the Universe I'm flinging something more likely to be found being flung at a zoo.
Now, logically (don't you hate it when logic interferes with a perfectly good, 'woe is me' rant?) I have enough evidence that I am not a hack. Probably. Enough industry professionals (who had no vested emotional reason to lie to me) have commented on my writing in a positive manner that I am not a hack. Random readers in contests, also with no vested interest in my mental well being, have given positive feedback to also support this hypothesis.
But logic doesn't kick in when it comes to that fear, that terror, that maybe I am just a hack and perhaps the professionals in question were on meds that day...or off their meds...or had too much coffee and were in a manic caffeine happy high.
I do wonder at what point the fear goes away. But until then, I'll continue battling with my inner demons and keep putting the words down.
Eventually it gets better. Right?