The Walking Doubt
by Erma Bombast
Rather than lie there trying to muscle myself to sleep, ’cause that always works, I get up and head downstairs, only to find myself back at my blog. It’s been months since I’ve been here. A few less-than-flattering reviews had sent me careening off into a frustrated-writer-artist-wannabe’s existential crisis, and I stopped. Who’m I kidding, I wondered.
Then came some encouragement. Marcia, who loves me like crazy, asked was I blogging because I want to be a writer, or because I have something to say? Sweet Shane, who barely knows me but really gets me, insists that I have a unique voice. She seems to have real interest.
But, I don’t know. I’m fending off the zombies that keep coming to feed on the bit of confidence I have. I wonder how long I can beat them back, even as I realize I’m the zombie.
So, tell me. How do I write when an army of harpies and minions, tirelessly toiling at the behest of my doubt, scream and rend their clothing at every word?
I honestly don’t know.