While editing, I realized Whose Hearts are Mountains really isn't a bad book. In fact, it's pretty good. I could look at it tomorrow and believe the opposite.
I may be the worst critic of my own books. As well, I may be too enamored of them. On bad mood days, I focus on the errors and despair. On good days, I think my work lyrical and moving. On most days, I wonder how I can get myself published and wonder if anyone will read me.
Apparently, self-doubt is a constant companion of good writers, no matter where they are in their career, even if they have published books, even if they've made the bestseller list. So if I get published, I'll still have the doubt.
I've sensed this all along. Insecurity is a gaping maw in the pit of one's stomach, which requires more and more proof to feed it, and it's never satisfied.
My self-doubt doesn't need more food. It needs to be accepted as a part of me that will always be hungry.
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