In the beginning I never questioned my vocation as a writer. I always knew that I wanted to be one, because I’ve always been writing and I could never imagine my life without it. Unfortunately, I’m no longer sure that being a recognised author is my destiny. I doubt that I’ll ever see my books in bookstores. Which is why I keep asking myself whether I’m actually any good at one thing I’ve dedicated all my life to. It doesn’t seem like it or I would have already written something worthy of being published. I just feel depressed and also bitter, because there are all these authors who are much younger than me who seem to have more talent or luck or both as they show their books in all these shiny and glossy editions and I guess they must have written something really great to have so many editions of their debut novels, while I’m still muddling my way through my first original idea twenty years hence… Is it time to admit that I’m just not a good writer? Is it time to give up and do something else? I just don’t have any hope left. I thought I was improving as a writer, but maybe I was just fooling myself. I guess you either have it or you don’t and it only takes one book to prove it. I’ve written more than a dozen – but where are they and how many people know about them?
