An unwelcome visitor came tapping at my window last evening. (Ok, it was more of a pounding with angry sneers thrown in for color and vile. But me, being one not to complain, will call it tapping and move on with the story.)
After peeling myself off the ceiling, and doing a quick check of Prozac levels in the old noggin, I quickly and sadly realized who my intruder was.
My specter of imminent failure.
I hadn’t seen the bloke in ages. His stench had faded from my living room and the crumpets I always keep on hand for his voracious though coiffured appetite had all gone stale and moldy.
The bastard was back and making one heck of a racket.
I have no idea why the Sire of Self-Doubt decided to make an appearance last night, but there his grotesqueness was… and me with no crumpets.
Every writer, no matter how weathered, has to deal with the specter of failure barging in from time to time.
There is no barring his entry.
There is only surviving his visit.