Monday, 18th April

I think that if you are an artist of any kind, you constantly walk this fine line between feeling over confident and being riddled in self-doubt.

I say this because you have to have the confidence to put yourself out there, to create something entirely new. Yet at the same time, there must be doubt – a fear that makes you strive for your work to be better.   For you to be better.

Maybe that’s just me, but I find I have days where I am really rather proud of my work. I will read it back to myself, satisfied in what I have made and I will go to bed happy in the knowledge that I have put something new and good into the world.

Then there are the bad days.   The days where I want to fling my manuscript into the wind and watch as it floats into the distance and out of my sight for good.

I imagine that the real quality of my work lies somewhere between these two realities.

I am 22, and like most of my friends my age I live in that “in-between” stage.   This weird phase of life where I’m an adult now. I can do adult things, like drink wine and set up a pension and live by myself. Yet despite this, despite having (in theory) complete control over my life, I feel as though there is still a long way for me to go. I am an adult but I am not yet where I want to be – and there is no guarantee that I will ever get there. And that terrifies me.   The notion that I will always be dissatisfied with my job, or that I may never make it successfully in my writing, or that I shall always feel as though I am falling short of my potential.   Like most 22 year olds a part of me is constantly looking to the future while being simultaneously horrified at what I might find there.

22, the complete opposite of a mid-life crisis.

All I can do is write and write and write.  And one day, maybe – hopefully – it will be enough.






2 thoughts on “22

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