All artists suffer from some kind of bleh period, don't they? Don't all writers fall to this from time to time? Don't artists put down their pencils and brushes in disgust as musicians fling sheet music into the air? How do they beat it, then? Do they continue in their art, making crap until good comes back out, like running warm water through the tap? Do they take a break, and if so, how do they remember to come back? How do you know when you beat it?
Really, I think at the heart of my particular predicament is the idea that nobody cares what I write anyhow. This sense of futility, that I'm the only one that enjoys my writing, saps that very joy from it, leaving me with nothing. And I'm not confident enough to ask people to read my writing, or critique it, or ask if they enjoy it, because I'm actually pretty self-conscious about it. Which is truly sad, as it's one of the few things I think I do well. Writing and cooking. And I guess unmentionables, too, but how pathetic can a person be if even their best isn't good enough for them? Am I a perfectionist? Or do I just hate myself so much I can't see the value of my work? Or, worse yet, what if my work is terrible? It's still the best I can do. I've fancied myself a writer my whole life, and if I can't do that right, what's left?
I'm not sure how many people would follow me on a literary adventure. I don't know if, when I set out on this road, anyone will be there to hear my minstrels sing of my glory, if indeed there is any glory to be found. Should I ask people to accompany me? Should I just journey for myself, and at the end of the road, look back to see if anyone came?
I don't know anymore.