Doubt creeps in at every new fantastic book that I read.

I would like to tell you that I am unrelentingly confident in my writing skills. I know the storyline and how complex and intricate it is, so I know it’s good. What I don’t know is if I will be capable of telling it. 

It’s a hard truth: writing a book is much more than good ideas combined with characters with depth and action. 

It’s all pieces entering at the right pace, into the right places, with the correct balance. It’s read and re-read, written and re-written until you believe it is perfect. 

I am trying to convince myself that this creeping doubt is normal; it is just how it is, miles away of your comfort zone. The first book is always your worst, but if you keep pushing, you will do it.

And then, even to myself, I sound like a motivational commercial, and the other part of me says that I will not be able to. I don’t have the time; it will take forever. Just read, do your daytime job, be a mother, and forget this dream.

But I feel like crying when I think of giving up. So I know I can’t. No matter how crappy it will be, I need to finish it.