I’m writing the synopsis this morning of my YA novel and I’m thinking the whole time, “This novel sucks! Is this what I’m supposed to be doing with my life?”
I’m thinking of all the time I have spent working on this novel and the worst-case scenario flashes before my mind: just another word document on my computer. Just like all of my other novels and non-fiction work.
I’m frustrated, no doubt. I think my stuff is good but if I can’t convince anyone else of that then it’s worthless and just a bunch of wasted time.
I never call myself a writer. I just don’t. Sure, I have a blog but so do lots of other people. I would like to definitively say, “Yes, I’m a writer.” But I just don’t. I guess I don’t feel like one until I have something published. Otherwise, I feel like a tinker. When I say this, I mean one who works with something in an unskilled manner, an experimenter, a fiddler.
I fiddle. I tinker. I experiment. Not create, enthrall, or inspire.
Sigh. I feel this as God’s calling, but I also feel frustrated when I languish. Give me something here, Lord. Anything!
Words of encouragement only get me so far. I’m results oriented.
And right now it seems like results are light-years away.