So, I finished that non-fic essay that I've been struggling with. I promptly came home and cried. Really, tears running down my face, snot stuffing my nose, face all scrunched up, cried.
It's not good enough.
No, seriously, it's not good enough. I know it, deep down and through my bones. This piece is kicking my ass.
So now I've got this little pit in my stomach of terror, and my mouth is set in a firm line, and my brain is glaring at me.
I must ... have to ... need to ... do better.
But what if I can't?
So I've got a little voice on my shoulder saying, "shit, oh no, oh no ... what am i going to do-o-o-o ...," while this big black woman is on my other shoulder, yelling at me, hands on her hips and screaming at me to do better.
So it's time. I gotta start kicking the ass out of this project, and I gotta find a way to thread my thoughts into an interesting, flowing essay. I've gotta find the story. If I gotta write it thirty times to nail it, then that's what I'll do. If I gotta rediscover my voice, then that's what I'll do. If I gotta revise the thing a million times until it flows, then that's what I damn well am going to do.
Damnit, damnit, damnit.
I can do this. I'm meant to do this. I am going to do this. I swear, I'm not just going to make it good enough, I'm going to make it ten times better than good enough.
Prayers and luck appreciated.