What had I gotten myself into?

What made me think I could ever be a writer?

Doubt had seeped into my mind, clogging it, drowning out anything remotely resembling confidence.

I couldn’t do it.

I was beyond overwhelmed.

I’d already put so much time and effort into my manuscript, and now it would appear that I was going to have to rewrite most of it. Twenty-six chapters, 140,000+ words, most of it covered in red.

It had taken Lisa and I the better part of a month just to get my prologue to a finished, publishable product (mostly due to my learning curve and stubbornness), and now I was faced with 26 more chapters, each requiring at least as much work as the prologue.

I felt defeated.

So, I took a little hiatus. I put the manuscript away without having read more than a couple pages of notes and focused on feeling better about myself. I went camping.

It gave me a lot of time to reflect, and let my subconscious work on the problem without irrational emotions clouding my reason. After a couple days, I felt recharged, as if being in nature had reorganized the chaos raging through my soul.

By the time I had gotten back to the Valley of the Sun, I felt that I had a better understanding of what I had to do. The sheer quantity of revisions had been overwhelming because I was contemplating all of the work that had to be done, instead of taking it chapter by chapter.

My insecurities faded as a plan of attack began to form. I reminded myself that I was still learning the trade, and had a lot yet to accomplish before I could confidently call myself a writer.

It took a while. But it happened.

I am a writer.

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