The Nerve Of Me

I am having fun writing this novel. I am enjoying myself. The challenges are many, but so are the triumphs and epiphanies, at least thus far.

And yet, I still occasionally feel brief pricks of dread. The ridiculous questions still arise from time to time, quieter than before, but still bothersome.

Should I be having this much fun?

Should it feel this natural?

The obvious answer is yes: it should be both of these things. But the fact that I'm still questioning my process bothers me a bit.

Clearly, some part of me feels as though I must "suffer" through this process. I have suffered through other processes, honestly, too many to count. Why should this be any different?

And how DARE I pen a novel so joyously when so many others have suffered for theirs?! I must have some kind of nerve, thinking that I can write something halfway decent and enjoy doing it.

It sounds silly. It is silly. But this is how I feel at times. It's getting better, but it seems I could benefit from some self-healing in this arena. Certainly, I wouldn't suggest that anyone needs to suffer to accomplish anything, nor would I wish them to, so why impose this absurd, half-formed dogma upon myself?

I'll revisit this at some point. For now, I will tell myself the same thing I tell everyone:

There is no piety in suffering, self inflicted or otherwise. The gods that demand we bleed, are gods of our own creation.