What if this daily writing project itself is spurred on by misplaced motivations, unhealthy impulses, un-analyzed desires?
What if it’s adding a stress and burden of production to a reality that doesn’t need it?
What if it’s trying to “force” something that just needs to be let alone?
What if the better choice is to simply work dutifully, be a loving husband and dad, and lay to rest these literary pursuits?
What if the very concepts I’m preaching on are invalid, or dangerous? What if I’m wrong?
What if I’m motivated to be a published author through erroneous influences, and I need to better interrogate those impulses?
What if my true calling lies elsewhere? Like here, at home, with my family, not doggedly pursuing the approval of an unknown agent, publisher, editor or readership.
I don’t know for sure the answer to any of these questions.
I ask myself for perspective, but my body simply returns the answer, “I’m cold.” I’ve been wearing a winter jacket and a toque while I write tonight. The coldness has been throwing off my ability to read my own emotional realities and spiritual senses.
I know that I’ve committed to a create-daily project. That I technically give myself the grace to rest from it when I need it. That if I’m wrong, I will learn. That it’s building a muscle and a habit that I want to improve. That I very well could be simply contributing more noise onto the internet at the expense of my own well-being.
I’ll say tonight: “Hey, doubt. I hear you. Thanks for trying to help. I’m going to give you a voice so I can hear what you have to say, and we can keep talking a bit.”
I’d love to round it out with a clear, bold, galvanizing response, but all I got is this: I’m a little cold.