A teacher once told me I wrote well. Then another, and another - as though the universe was growing impatient waiting for self-realization to illuminate some magical path where creation and destiny mingle.
For some reason, I get tripped up in analysis: What is it to write well? What's so special about what I do? Everyone else can write and many write far better than I could ever hope to accomplish. My brain spins so fast in self doubt, there's a black hole sucking up any semblance of creative energy.
And now my father is drunk, spraying his depressing verbal diarrhea all over me. I can't even finish a thought.