Why Not?

Let's see if I can describe this feeling.

I feel disappointment, depression, despair.  We'll call them the three d's.  No one wants to experience any of them at any time, because they make you feel so uncomfortable.  Because they make you feel so crummy.         

But it goes beyond that.

It goes into feeling useless.  Worthless.  Like a waste of life. 

I'm good at doing so many things.

I do a great job of running our household.

When I clean our house, I guarantee you it's clean.  I defy you to find dirt or dust anywhere.

I can be a terrific cook, make delicious meals.

I balance all of our accounts to the penny every two weeks, and I'm in control of our finances.

I do a reasonable job of cutting Chris's hair.

The list goes on and on of all the domestic duties I do without thinking about them, with results even I, a perfectionist, am happy with.

And, when I used to work for one of Canada's major banks, well, if I may say so myself, I did a pretty decent job too.  Employees were happy, customers were happy, my boss was happy, auditors were happy, results were good, and I had a reputation for being a good employee.   (Until expectations blew up, and no one–no human being, that is–could meet them anymore.  That's when I got out.  Because I knew there was something more.  Because I wanted to experience what that something more was.  Because I needed to be the writer I'd always wanted to be.  Because I had to at least try, or feel like the mountain climber who always wanted to climb Everest but didn't.) 

Except…

Except what if you're not the writer you thought you were or thought you could be?  What if, no matter how hard you work on your novel, it's still not good enough?  What if you look at the damn thing for the thousandth time, still see something wrong with it, and have no idea how to fix it?

I'm filled with such sadness right now, I want to quit.  Quit writing and quit life (for those who are worried I might do something desperate, please know I won't; but that doesn't stop me from feeling like I want to).  

How many times can you keep trying and still come up short?  How many times can you keep banging your head against the wall without busting it wide open?  How many times can you keep doing this to yourself and feel so badly afterward, you wonder if you might be a masochist?

I bet I could be a terrific barista at Starbucks.  I bet I could be a terrific employee at Lindt, or Banana Republic, or any number of other places.  I bet I could master all kinds of jobs, if a manager gave someone my age, with my experience, a chance.   

So why do I keep doing this to myself?  Why not give up writing altogether?  Why not get a job like everyone else, make a little money, buy a few nice things–but, most importantly, never face the frustration of writing again?

Why not?

Why not?