I used to be confident that, if nothing else, I had a way with words. I thought I was a writer. I thought …
I don’t know.
I’m tired. I can’t say anything right. I can’t get the words to line up right.
If I can’t convey meaning in my own life; if I can’t navigate basic conversations within interpersonal relationships, how can I possibly write a book?
Isn’t that the pinnacle of hubris, to think I can convey ideas, thought, and meaning to an audience of thousands–to move them emotionally and connect with them– when I can’t even cross a solitary communication divide?
I’ve been lying to myself.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.