You stare at your blank notebooks and think you don’t have anything of substance to say. You stare at a blank screen and think your voice isn’t needed. You want to give up, to quit, to go back to thinking you aren’t the creative type, that you can’t be a writer. But something keeps you from walking away.
I’m realizing though, for someone who *thinks* she likes who she is becoming, I am still fighting the inner critic telling me I’m not enough