I started thinking about the novel and got anxious that the characters are stupid and unappealing, or stock, or boring. They are duds and the story is a dud and the language is ugly and the writing forced. The voice is wrought or annoying or soundless. The plot is vapid. The pace dull.
This is called doubt. Crushing, debilitating, self-loathing doubt. I take full responsibility. I am disparaged and ridiculed for my obvious failure. This is doubt. It has bitten me and the venom swims in my heart. Quick, I must have the antidote. There isn’t much time. I have work to do.
