"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men." - Jules. Well, Quentin Tarantino, most likely.
Am I the righteous man?
Writing is a solitary business. Anyone who tells you otherwise is talking about writing, not writing. And so easy is it to be that one who is large, brash, and absolute. Are they the evil men? People talk about how many books they have sold. How much better they are than you, as you sit alone and write. Are they the selfish men?
I am a failure.
Everywhere I look I feel this. I am stumped by my own writing. I cannot put new words on the page, for they are poor. I am an imitation of a writer. I am the pretense of the writer I was, or at least, thought I was. Was I ever?
Or is it all a lie? A lie that I am telling myself, but without the knowledge to grasp the truth. Perhaps those who are better than me are just braggarts and dullards who wish to veil me in an illusion. Perhaps to hawk their wares? Perhaps.
Or is it that they too are failures, and try to hide behind a wall. Not all walls are made of stone.
I am different to them.
Perhaps I am the righteous man?
Or does it matter?
For all the brag and cries and fight, writing is a solitary business. Whether I choose to be a dullard, or an absolute, I have been and will be again alone with the page, where words will make sentences and sentences, prose.
For I am not the righteous man. I am not the selfish, nor the tyranny.
I am the path. My writing is the righteous man. It is beset on all sides and it makes me cry in pain and fear that the righteous man might not make his journey. Like all paths. We weep for our man.
But one day he will strike down. Paths will cross.
I am not alone. Everyone feels like this. We all deal with it differently.
You are not alone.