Sometimes I Feel Like Dumping It All

Today I am in the grip of a nearly debilitating melancholy, probably created by excessively dwelling upon the responses from readers of yesterday's blog entry. My former feeling of inadequacy, my unsureness as to my ability to function as an imaginative and original writer of fiction has progressed from a vague feeling of doubt to increasing depths of despair. I can no longer blame a lack of perspicacity on the part of the readers of my stories, and must instead face the fact that I, not they, am the actual cause of this ongoing confusion. The meanings within my imaginative writing is not too esoteric, as I previously thought, but instead stem from the stories' not being properly presented, not being understandable enough.

In other words . . . I am a failure.

A failure (one who fails) has three alternatives, as I see it: to continue failing; to change to more conventional methods of communication and settle for the second-best results; or to simply abandon all futile future efforts in the field of fiction-writing.

Or, perhaps I might alter my thinking somewhat... if that be indeed possible.

I must look up the definition of quandary.


"Oh Good Grief!"

"Stop this foolishness."

"Just get on with it."

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