holding myself prisoner for a petty crime.

I feel like there should be a certain purity to art. You should write because you love it, not because you’re trying to be the next big thing. It shouldn’t be tainted with capitalistic intentions.

I don't know where this belief came from, and I don't think I'm right.

What’s wrong with trying to be the next big thing? What's wrong with using the NY Times Best Seller List as a measure of your success, as your certificate of accomplishment? What’s wrong with wanting to create, but not starve? Why do I always picture a “true” creative being a starving artist?

I’m not trying to be huge. I’ve realized that I don’t write only for myself; I write to get positive feedback from others. My self-esteem is at an all-time low, and I have been working years in a job that rarely praises me.

It makes me cringe to write that. Call the fuckin whaaambulance, “My job doesn’t praise me”. Boo-fuckin-who, you whiny little shit. I have a job and can do grown up things, like keep a roof over my head and buy food without being financially devastated. But it does help my morale if my good work is recognized. I can’t keep denying that positive feedback makes me feel good.

Why does it feel bad to feel good?

We expect to train dogs with positive reinforcement. We want to raise our kids with positive reinforcement. Where did I get the idea that wanting positive reinforcement as an adult makes me weak, needy, and clingy? Who forced this narrative down my throat that we should be happy to work hard, no matter what we get in return for it?

I write because I’ve been assuming that I needed a creative outlet. Is it really the creativity I need, or the positivity that Prose feeds me?

I want to believe I can do what I love and not worry about receiving anything in return. I want to believe in this statement that has leeched itself to my brain: Working hard is always its own reward.

Here is what’s annoying: even if people throw compliments at me, I feel uncomfortable for enjoying it. I feel guilty.

I always feel guilty! Is it residual Catholic guilt? Were my parents too hard on me? Am I holding myself to unrealistic standards? I think the majority of the time I enjoy something, I feel guilty for enjoying it. How fuckin stupid is that?

What makes a writer? I’m so fuckin stuck in my head that it’s been harder than usual to write. I was reading some of my older work and I feel like I’ve lost something. There is something extra that used to sit in my writings that have abandoned me. Or I’ve lost it. Or maybe I was afraid of enjoying it, so I’ve pushed it back into my subconscious.

Just write, I tell myself. Fuck the questions and the guilt, just write.

But when I try to write, I hate what comes out. I hate it.If I don’t have this, what do I have?

This isn’t a fishing lure for compliments or tears. I need to know that other writers agonize over things, overthink things that end up being completely irrelevant. Then, I need to know how you come back out of it to keep kicking ass.