I love this piece by my client, TC, who is nothing like the gnomes of whom she writes.
The only people who understand writers are writers, and wanna-be writers. We're a weird lot; misunderstood, questionable; and we question ourselves. Who the hell are we? And why are we here?
I think of those god-awful bloggers and those screwed up gnomes who have no life, yet they find the time and space to write. They write things that normal, healthy people sholdn't waste their precious life energy or time reading. Yech.
My writing coach, whom I have skipped out on more than I've shown up for, seems to think that I've got a writer's voice; an "edgy voice." She believes in me. And I disbelieve in my own energy, my own "push." I walk away from "it." I get tired, no, exhausted when I think of doing it: writing. I want to get a drink; walk the dogs . . . in the rain, yet; stare the TV, take a nap, anything other than write. And yet here it is. I do have "it." And I know it. And yet I don't believe it.
How are you denying your own voice?