I’m a little insecure. Maybe a lot. Those who know me well would understand that this was once a lot worse. As most anyone would understand, it’s easy to be anxious about showing something of your creative talent to the world.

I write. A lot. I could probably write more, but I always tell myself that I could write a lot less. I’ve always done my best to perfect my writing as much as I can. I worry and worry a hundred times over about whether my work will ever be good enough. 

Deep down I know that my writing is good. What I want, though, is for it to be great. A great work gets you places. It might just get me published. That is my dream. 

It’s not about the money, really. I mean, sure, that would be nice. I’d love to be able to make a living off my writing, but I mostly want to share my stories. To do that, I have to finish them. Getting published comes a little later.

Insecurity can even make writing difficult at times. I worry about how a sentence sounds, how two dimensional a character is. I love writing, but I also fear it. It’s a constant search for perfection where nothing is perfect. In a novel of a hundred thousand words or more, the margin for error is too great. 

Maybe I should give up? I would certainly save myself a lot of anxiety. I’d stress less, I’d have more time on my hands, and I’d be under less pressure. I’d still have the stories, though. They constantly race through my mind, my thoughts. I feel like I’m better off releasing them somehow.

I still enjoy it, amongst all the security. I love what I do. I love having the opportunity to stimulate the imaginations of others. I love my writing.

But what if I fail? What if I’m never published? What if my stories are rubbish, the characters dull, the plots flat? What if, what if, what if? 

There’s one way to find out, in the end. I might as well try. Sure, I might fail, but what if I succeed?