Doubt Is Spelled F-U-C-K Y-O-U

Kind of sneaks up on you doesn’t it?

Like a malaria-dousing mosquito or the herp, doubt is one soft-footed bastard. Comes at the most unexpected times, too. Say, for example, you had a busy, PRODUCTIVE, day. You wrote double your usual word count (fuck yeah, go you!), you got laundry done (domesticity! You’re a grown up!), and you even sent a few emails to important people who could possibly bring you a little closer to being an Important Person (more grown up things! Hooray!). Then, the second you have a second to actually THINK about things…

BAM.

Doubt. That sick, evil bastard cackles behind your left ear (because, let’s face it, you’re getting old and the hearing in your right ear is probably going) and it’s all you can do to keep from crying out for mommy.

Okay, so it’s not you. It’s me. The Doubt Monster visited me today. It took up residence in my frontal lobe and made itself a nice cup of hazelnut coffee. Fucker. And do you know what it told me?

“That whole agent thing? Not going to happen.”

“You might as well just settle for mediocrity because, BITCH, you’ve got it in spades.”

“That haircut is a little out of date, isn’t it?”

“Seriously, though. Don’t quit your day job. Like, ever.”

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So what do you–excuse me, *I*–do? Do I crawl under the kitchen table with my nappy and a binky that I may or may not still have from my soft-headed formative years? Do I climb to the tallest room in the tallest tower and throw my work (the paper versions, anyway) to litter the ground like sad, sad, depression confetti?

Yes.

I MEAN NO. No. I don’t do those things. YOU THERE! STOP TOUCHING THOSE PAPERS ON THE GROUND I NEED THEM!

No, I get on the trusty compooter-machine and log into the interwebz where I can share my pain with all of you. Because you care.

You do care, don’t you?

DON’T YOU?

Thanks for the hug. I needed that. Let’s have some whiskey.

Mmm whiskey.

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