20th January ’25……
In times of crisis, the self-doubt monster strikes, or at least, that’s what it feels like when the chips are down and there’s no one there to whisper words of reassurance into my ever-needy ears.
As steadfast as I always strive to be, the big fella is never that far away, lurking in the shadows, working on his repertoire of barbs and preparing to pounce.
He knows when I’ve been getting cocky and need knocking down a peg or three, when I’ve been patting myself on the back for the umpteenth time, perhaps for a particularly well worded paragraph of prose or he catches me marvelling at my own genius.
Every time I allow myself a moment of self-congratulation, he’s there to carry-out some terrible psychological revenge.
In truth, he’s a pest. An ever-present threat. The arch string-pulling puppet master and the architect of my downfall.
I realise that it sounds ridiculous…. After all, I’m a fully grown, hairy-arsed, adult male not a four-year-old, pre-schooler waiting for the lights to go out and the monsters to come parading out of the bedroom wardrobe.
But this is a high stakes poker game that I’m currently living through, and for a normally risk-averse chap like yours truly, to turn your back on all forms of paid income and thus, financial security, would appear to be the decision-making of a swivel-eyed loon.
Add to that the fact that I know the odds are against me, (it’s tough to get published as a first-time writer) and that time is very much a factor (early estimates suggest 18 months till the money runs out) and perhaps you can see what I mean by ‘high-stakes’.
The dream, to be published and begin a full-time writing career is, at the same time a white knuckle-riding race again time.
Given all that, is it really that surprising that on occasion, perhaps at the end of a particularly bad day, when the stardust just won’t come or those days when you can’t shift the black cloud that’s hovering above you, the mask slips and you succumb to a little self-sabotaging, self-doubt?
The self-doubt monster is a merciless trickster who lives inside my head, flicking the big black switch marked ‘paranoia’ or the sticky red and white one for ‘insecurity’ and either way, triggering my slide down the slippery slope of ‘what if’s’ that always cause the trouble.
There’s no end to his treachery, the slippery, oily bastard.
The ‘What If’s’ never seem to change, so let’s get down to it:
That’s a big one. I guess there’s always the consolation of knowing that at least I tried, right?
Well, that could happen if the work’s not good enough….and so I must make sure it is.
The first part is distinctly possible, the second, I can’t and won’t allow to happen.
Then at least I’ll have a talking point sitting on the coffee table when people come around the house to laugh their heads off at me. So that’s nice.
Since as far back as I can remember, he’s always been there, like my own personal Rumpelstiltskin, reminding me that whatever it is I have in mind is doomed to eternal failure.
The thing is, we’ve all got one.
Since the first swamp-thing made its way out of the primeval ooze they’ve been causing havoc, whispering words of impending calamity to the helplessly hopeless.
When the first caveman discovered fire, he was there prodding him in the ribs and insisting that there was nothing new about this and it had all been done before.
So, in conclusion, my mission then, should I choose to accept it, is to hang tough, ignore the little trouble-maker whenever I feel him creeping up on me and make sure, for the sake of all who’ve gone before, that I never, ever, let him win.
