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.


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