“I like you,” he said.
“No, you don’t,” I said.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, exasperated. He’d been trying for almost an hour to get me to agree to a date.
“I just do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You don’t know me!”
He threw his arms up in the air. “I know I like you, and if you went out with me, I’d get to know you. Why do you think I wouldn’t?”
I didn’t how to answer him, and I looked away. “There’s no point in wasting your time.”
“I wouldn’t be wasting my time.”
“You think what you want. I’ve got to go.”
“Will you think about it?”
“Fine. I’ll think about it,” I said, knowing I’d never say yes.
Why do some us fail to believe in our writing? I send a piece out into the world and can think only about is how flawed it is. Looking over the pages, I see a tangled mess. They are tangles that defy logic. They can never be straightened out.
But if you don’t believe in your writing (or your art) but you keep putting down words, what does that mean? Are you crazy or do you harbor a faith in yourself that you just can’t admit to? Why ever not? What would be terrible about that?
Maybe that anxiety comes from somewhere else entirely. Do you think people are born with faith in their abilities and have it taken away? Or they born without it and have to learn it?