What a tough week. Bear with me here, folks, because I'm about to open up a big can of the crazies. Here we go:
Within hours of returning from Mexico, I began to feel tired and worn out. Exhausted. I chalked it up to some kind of jungle bug. And it most likely was. But along with the exhaustion, headache and aching muscles was something else.
An old enemy of mine. Self-doubt. Insecurity. A feeling of not being good enough.
I tried to get back to my novel and found that it didn't seem important. In fact, it seemed silly that I actually thought I could write a book and get it published. What the hell was I thinking? Who was I fooling?
I felt like a phony. A fake.
Now these feelings knocked me for a loop, since I'm generally a confident person. Sure, I get a bit insecure at times. Who doesn't? But deep down, I've always thought I could make it as an author. That I could succeed.
But this week, my confidence fled like a wronged lover. Add the fact that my old newspaper is laying people off right and left (my wife still works there! For now), and you have the recipe for a crappy week. I've almost felt depressed, in a literal sense. I can't seem to get excited about anything. Writing seems pointless and stupid. Or, at least, it did until today.
Ah, today. I woke up feeling just as lousy as every other day this week. But I got myself up early and showered and went to church, because our mission team was making a presentation about Mexico and my presence was required. Otherwise, I might still be in bed. Seriously.
And as the day wore on, through a very good Sunday brunch with the family and several hours of video gaming, I began to feel better. Not great. But better. I still haven't figured out why I sank so low this past week.
But I have a theory.
I spent last week in a very poor Mayan village with my son and a dozen close friends. We were doing good work. Important, life-changing work with some of the sweetest people (especially the children) in the world.
It was awesome. And there, in a nutshell, is the crux of my problems this week. My little life felt, well, pathetic. Useless. Pointless. Who the fuck cares if I write a book and sell it? Well, besides my family, of course. But does it mean anything in the grand scheme of things?
No. It doesn't.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm as big a material boy as the next. I love me some stuff, if you know what I mean. Cars. Nice clothes. Games. Electronics. Gym memberships. Expensive cigars.
So what the hell is going on here? I mean, am I turning into some kind of bleeding heart dufus who thinks he can save the world all by himself? Sure, I was a journalist because it always felt like a deeper calling rather than just a professional career. I mean, I could have made a hell of a lot more money doing something else. But what I did felt important to me, and that was always good enough.
I guess I wanted to write and sell this book now to do something nice for me and my family. Because it's been my lifelong dream. And now this whole altruistic crap rears its ugly head. What's a man to do?
Well. I'm going to keep on keeping on. I'm going to finish editing the book and do my damnedest to sell it. And I'm going to keep on writing books and trying to sell them. I'm going to make all the freaking money I can.
And then I'm going to use a big chunk of it to help others. Maybe a certain group of little Mayan kids.
And then I'm taking the wife on a cruise. To Europe.
Ah. Back to normal. :)
Within hours of returning from Mexico, I began to feel tired and worn out. Exhausted. I chalked it up to some kind of jungle bug. And it most likely was. But along with the exhaustion, headache and aching muscles was something else.
An old enemy of mine. Self-doubt. Insecurity. A feeling of not being good enough.
I tried to get back to my novel and found that it didn't seem important. In fact, it seemed silly that I actually thought I could write a book and get it published. What the hell was I thinking? Who was I fooling?
I felt like a phony. A fake.
Now these feelings knocked me for a loop, since I'm generally a confident person. Sure, I get a bit insecure at times. Who doesn't? But deep down, I've always thought I could make it as an author. That I could succeed.
But this week, my confidence fled like a wronged lover. Add the fact that my old newspaper is laying people off right and left (my wife still works there! For now), and you have the recipe for a crappy week. I've almost felt depressed, in a literal sense. I can't seem to get excited about anything. Writing seems pointless and stupid. Or, at least, it did until today.
Ah, today. I woke up feeling just as lousy as every other day this week. But I got myself up early and showered and went to church, because our mission team was making a presentation about Mexico and my presence was required. Otherwise, I might still be in bed. Seriously.
And as the day wore on, through a very good Sunday brunch with the family and several hours of video gaming, I began to feel better. Not great. But better. I still haven't figured out why I sank so low this past week.
But I have a theory.
I spent last week in a very poor Mayan village with my son and a dozen close friends. We were doing good work. Important, life-changing work with some of the sweetest people (especially the children) in the world.
It was awesome. And there, in a nutshell, is the crux of my problems this week. My little life felt, well, pathetic. Useless. Pointless. Who the fuck cares if I write a book and sell it? Well, besides my family, of course. But does it mean anything in the grand scheme of things?
No. It doesn't.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm as big a material boy as the next. I love me some stuff, if you know what I mean. Cars. Nice clothes. Games. Electronics. Gym memberships. Expensive cigars.
So what the hell is going on here? I mean, am I turning into some kind of bleeding heart dufus who thinks he can save the world all by himself? Sure, I was a journalist because it always felt like a deeper calling rather than just a professional career. I mean, I could have made a hell of a lot more money doing something else. But what I did felt important to me, and that was always good enough.
I guess I wanted to write and sell this book now to do something nice for me and my family. Because it's been my lifelong dream. And now this whole altruistic crap rears its ugly head. What's a man to do?
Well. I'm going to keep on keeping on. I'm going to finish editing the book and do my damnedest to sell it. And I'm going to keep on writing books and trying to sell them. I'm going to make all the freaking money I can.
And then I'm going to use a big chunk of it to help others. Maybe a certain group of little Mayan kids.
And then I'm taking the wife on a cruise. To Europe.
Ah. Back to normal. :)
