I was recently told, twice, by separate friends at separate times, that I am a confident person. They even went so far as to say one of the most confident people either of them has ever known. My response was, “are you kidding??” I am the biggest of unconfident messes about most things. Except, I told them, my writing. I am confident I am a good writer. The best? No. But good.
We decided I must hide my insecurity well, and project confidence even when there is none, because I often feel like the wide-eyed child, ostracized on the playground for being afraid of the fireman’s pole. A good trait to have I suppose, but it doesn’t change the raging butterflies, or the mad spinning in my head of anxiety when I am not thoroughly in control.
For the last 24 hours, the mad spinning, the crazy butterflies, and minor bouts of nausea have plagued me. For the first time in a long time, I am questioning my writing ability. I turned in my freelance work, and BAM! I am questioning and reconsidering every word I wrote, thinking, there were so many other words that could have been used. So many other ways to organize each piece of copy. What if I wrote against what they had intended? What if I wrote three great sentences, but they are all in different versions of the copy? What if it truly is no good? What if, what if, what if?
It is lunch time, and I have not heard from them yet. This probably means nothing, but oh how I wish I had received a glowing e-mail from them saying it was perfect at 8am.