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It’s another edition of the Insecure Writer’s Support Group. Headed up by best selling author and Ninja Captain Alex Cavanaugh.

This month’s co-hosts are below. Be sure to visit and say hi.

L. G. Keltner: HERE
Donna Hole:  HERE
Lisa Buie-Collard: HERE
S. L. Hennessy: HERE

Today I am Defeated

Today I am defeated. Plain. Simple. No doubts. The fire all but extinguished. Somewhere inside, a small ember struggles for air, for energy, for life; denying death. The words refuse to come forward in this lifeless landscape, knowing their power and their wisdom will not stir even the most optimistic. They deserve better, so they hide, waiting for the right moment. Better not to fall at all, than to fall on deaf ears.

The critique group is well meaning and supportive. But I look at its structure: At least two PhD’s, a Masters, a writing instructor who is internationally published . . . and me. I don’t even have a Jr. College degree; in anything. I might as well step to the plate at Yankee Stadium thinking I can hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth inning in game seven to win the World Series (which doesn’t include most of the World.) I declined the group’s invitation the first time, and with good reason. What has changed to think I should accept their offer this time?

Who am I fooling (except myself?) Played for a nitwit by my ego, my few minor “accomplishments” billowed like a summer’s thunderstorm across the open plains, as if “I have arrived.” Thousands of other writers, more likely millions, have proven themselves worthy of publication. How do I think I can stand among them and feel justified of their company (or even their praise?) And like those summer storms, I too, dissipate and fizzle into nothingness, barely a memory evaporating into the cool night air.

This is way past insecurity. This is the tipping point of imbalance, of folding with a winning hand. It is staring at a clock, the second hand going round and round, getting nowhere. At least it serves a purpose, if only to remind me of how much time as been wasted.

And yet, somehow, the ember still burns . . .