Depression

Writing is hard. It involves, at least for me, a stillness, a sense of motivation, and a sense of inspiration.

Many famous writers have said that the craft doesn't involve finding time to write so much as it involves making time to write. But if life is never still, even for a moment, where is anyone to make that time? Do I cut it from a moment with my love? Do I abandon my job or daily tasks? Deep down, I suppose, I do have extra time. But this is where the great beast of doubt comes in. From doubt stems insecurity (am I good enough?), uncertainty (is this the project I should devote myself to?), and, eventually, depression with the realization that Ian twenty-seven, working at Starbucks, in massive debt for student loans, an far removed from any sense of purpose (near minimum wage at a coffee shop that forces it's workers to be part time is hardly work with purpose). Yes, now is an excellent time to move onward. But doubt.

So I write this, not to receive pity or anything like that, but to force myself to display this ugly beast--doubt--and move on. 2013 may just yet be a good year.

Jkw