There's a monster that lives in my brain. At night, after a long but productive day, it comes out and whispers evil things to me. It tells me that I suck. It tells me that no one will ever want to read what I've written. It hints that everything I write has been written before. That I'm unoriginal. That I'm a hack. Sell-out. Loser.
The monster's been pretty dormant lately, but last night it crawled out and had a party in my skull. All the vile, nasty, cruel things it could've said, it did. And it didn't just stick to writing. It preyed on every aspect of my life where I fear I might not have been good enough.
In hindsight it was quite interesting from a psychological perspective. Last night, it was just a pain in the ass.
I tried denying the things it said. I tried rational arguments. I tried shouting all the things I know are true over the top of its lies. None of that worked. In the end, I just let it play itself out and it must've eventually run out of things to say because at some point I fell asleep.
This morning, there are no lasting side effects except I didn't get enough sleep. Bring on the coffee.
Before the monster woke up, I figured out the next scene in Sleeping Ugly and came in here to write it down. Looking at the chicken scratch on a sticky-note now, the idea still works, so that's a win. It's all a win if I don't take anything the monster says to heart.
The monster is there. It will always be there. Over the years, I've learned I can't kill it. I can only accept that it exists, ignore it, and forge ahead.