Publishing Premonition, or El Ladrillo de la Escritora

Gwen paced in front of her desk, glancing occasionally at the blank space on her computer screen.  She sighed, shaking her head.  She hadn't been able to really write anything for days.  Occasionally she'd begin to tap something out, but it always turned out iffy, awful, and-or downright mediocre.  She knew she could write better than that, but nothing was coming to her.

She placed her head in her hand, sighing again.  Perhaps it was just her disposition as of late, but before it felt like she was writing pieces among friends who were developing like she was.  But now, it felt like whatever she wrote was to be judged before a panel of literary experts, scrutinizing the piece as if it was her life's work and it was buffed, polished, and "made pretty," although, in Gwen's mind, that description couldn't be farther from the truth.  Nearly all of what she wrote she considered to be a work in progress, unless she said otherwise.

She began typing something, and at the moment it seemed pretty good.  Gwen ran off a copy, then started towards the big PUBLISH box in the foyer.  Beginning to open the little door to slide in the piece, something made her stop and whip the piece back out.  She scanned each line over again furiously, shaking her head as she read through it again and again.

"No," she muttered.  "No, I can't submit this.  It'll be torn to bits, it's no good."  She started back to her room, lost in thought.  Perhaps this is one of those "self loathing" periods writers get sometimes, where you feel like everything you write is no good.  Perhaps it's writer's block.  I gotta get  back into this, but how can I do that if I don't have confidence in what I write?

The End

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