Doubt Reasonably
Each passing moment reveals itself and fades. Words from thoughts seamlessly etched onto invisible walls. Doubt runs rampant throughout the wilderness, feeding on the insecurities of the mind, body, and soul. A soul which has become hollow, barren, and in dire need of nurturing.
The numbing coolness has been embraced. Worrisome feelings have evaporated, leaving a thick fog of self-doubt layered with acute confidence; these are all that remain. An abstruse combination that’s rare.
I’m simply waiting for the crash; when everything falls in place or when the bottom suddenly becomes a reality. The uncertainty leaves an unfavorable taste. However, certain obstacles whether mentally or physically must be tackled.
“To have doubted one’s own first principles is the mark of a civilized man.” — Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.
Doubt lives within me rent-free, daily. I doubt my ability to write a coherent prose. With each writing, there’s the editing process which takes upwards to an hour if I don’t have a deadline. Once finished, I re-read for an hour, then let my mind sail off into the balmy seas.
The laptop is opened once again. After checking the social media engagements, I read the article again. And this goes on throughout the day, even though I’m writing other things. I always come back to the “big” article of the day I’ve written. The constant editing in my head and doubting the work I have put out is all-encompassing.
Why?
Generally, I think my writing or style of writing sucks. The mind-numbing gauntlet I run through to make sure it’s up to some mythical standard is exhausting, yet, humbling. Satisfaction rarely, if ever, comes.
For example, the J. Cole piece I wrote up last Thursday was well-received by not only the artist’s fans, but by folks on the fence about him. The post gained a considerable amount of attention to where it reached his manager. Pageviews were like Stephen Curry from three…..MONEY.
All in all, the write-up was a success. And good vibes were felt internally. Despite that, the lingering tones of doubt rang louder and louder. So I did what I do best: became extra critical of myself. Therefore, each re-read became a completely different article in my head, which led me to believe the current one was shit.
Consequently, what’s done is done. There can no longer be anymore edits to the post. The disappointing look of bewilderment was a permanent fixture on my face. The shackles of editorial enslavement kept me pinned down. There is so much more I could’ve done to each and every article, yet, I became complacent after the first or second draft.
Doubt boroughs into me like a famished deer tick on the brink of death. Is writing really a talent of mine, or is it just a wave I’m riding while drunk off the desperate need to impress people? Am I that great of a bullshitter that I convinced myself that I could stand to the likes of Charles M. Blow, Paul Cantor, Bryon Crawford, Malcolm Gladwell, and others.
Whatever it is I’m doing…..I’m going to keep doing it.
Because the confidence I have in self-doubt rearing its ugly mug periodically, will only push me to do greater.
“We are made to persist. That’s how we find out who we are.” — Tobias Wolff
