The confidence of the arrogant

I constantly doubt, am I good enough, is anything I produce of worth, will I ever receive the applause of my peers or am I to be one of the 6,000 losers a year who inundate just one literary agent with their substandard manuscripts? You’d hope you’re capable of knowing which category you belong in but I’m not sure it’s possible to regard your own work with anything but rose colours. Slowly it’s coming together but at my rate of progress I’ll need to live another fifty years before the breakthrough happens by which time I’ll be too old to enjoy the sunshine as much as I’d hope.
Actually I think I might be almost too old now. Those are the dreams of a younger man, travel, heat, dark liaisons in narrow alleyways with warm young girls from different climates. None of that is going to happen to a wrinkled old fart like me, now it’s getting tutted at for admiring beauty, for allowing older eyes to linger longer than is acceptable on too-young-for-you flesh granddad.
I just fancy a few years in the sun but I guess, like most things, the fantasy is no doubt better than the reality. Maybe there is no pot at the end of the rainbow after all? Maybe all the hours of slogging over a comma or is it a possessive apostrophe don’t count much compared to ‘proper’ work. I mean, I’m only trying to entertain people, what a worthless occupation!
I try to see my work realistically but a part of me believes it’s as good as anyone else’s, not better necessarily but I never set out to be the new Tolkien. To be regarded as a story-teller is good enough for me…but I do doubt, constantly.


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