Call it a crisis of confidence, but sometimes I wonder what all of these writing aspirations of mine are really worth. It’s just easier to let somebody else say it for you. Everything has already been written. Anything significant has already been said. That all happened much longer ago than most of us suspect.
So where does that leave us? The entirety of human expression amounts to a feeble shriek, a derelict distress call doomed to echo in dutiful repetition.
That’s just my suspicion, anyway.
