It seems the closer I get to finishing this book, the more it seems possible that it could be mediocre. The immortal exuberance and the ignorant confidence I began this project with has morphed long ago into a couple of hung-over cheerleaders. I feel like I’m pushing a car up the last half of a tall hill, and these cheerleaders are no longer helping me push, but instead, I find them in the back seat of the car sleeping things off, leaving me alone with my self-doubt, who has been here all along, but was shouted down earlier, when the cheerleaders were in their prime. The realization is almost palpable:
My book could actually be mediocre; it could even suck.
I feel like I’m pushing this car, which is getting heavier by the hour, and silently wishing I were in the back seat with the chearleaders–passed out or otherwise. If only I could get self-doubt to help me push; I’d make it to the top for sure. There seems little hope of reviving the cheerleaders.
Hands on the bumper, eyes down, keep pushing, and stop looking at the top of the hill. Is it me, or is this hill actually getting taller. . .