"Can I really do this? Am I truly contributing something to the world? Do I have anything meaningful to say? Am I actually talented, or am I just fooling myself? Does any of this even matter?"
Or:
"Just give it up already—there are more than enough writers in the world! What makes you so special that you think you have something to add? Writing is practically a dying craft. Besides, you're not hip or modern enough! No one’s waiting for you!"
Now that I’ve started writing again, my demons are working overtime. They spew out acidic, negative remarks, and I try to keep going as calmly as I can. Small steps, steady and deliberate. Slowly and unsteadily. Sometimes, I feel the demons winning—building mental blocks that stop me in my tracks.
When writing gets hard and technical snags appear, I start to doubt myself. I try to stay centered and take a step back, but sometimes I get swept away by the toxic chatter swirling in my head.
"If I just work harder, try more things, write in more styles, surely I’ll get better!" Out of insecurity, I tend to hoard things—knowledge, inspiration, plans. But really, it’s about doing. Logging the hours, stretching my writing muscles, becoming fluid again. I’m still a little stiff after so many years away.
At the same time, I want to listen to my demons—they’re not here for nothing. They remind me of feelings I’d rather avoid, of lessons I clearly still need to learn. Not feeling good enough, fearing I’ll never get there, struggling to take up space, and wrestling with ruthless perfectionism.
When I see them as enemies, it turns into a hard-fought battle. A serious fight. One where I clamp down on my dreams in full pit bull mode. Grinding on, hacking down demons. It’s exhausting and intense. But it’s okay that they’re here. I don’t want to banish them—I want to listen.
They mean well, after all.
I pick up on their signals and respond to them—with meditation, play, building trust. Growth.
I hold my demons gently and soothe them to sleep.
Don’t be afraid—I hear you. I take you seriously and I’ll take care of you.
Rest now—you’ve worked hard enough.
The demons of a writer