Forget the tiger who came to tea. Self-doubt, that’s my trouble.
I would much rather negotiate my way past a wild cat happily munching his way through our tea, emptying our cupboards and drinking all of Daddy’s beer (if you know the story, you’ll understand), than when self-doubt pays visit. That’s what I can’t cope with. It came to visit about a month ago, and try as I might, I can’t get it to leave.
I’ve written a book for goodness sake. 84,000 words of my blood, sweat and tears (although there is quite a lot of that in the book too). During this time, I kept a house going, cared for my daughter and Mr P, and went out to work for more than a few hours a week. I kept all the balls in the air and only now, when it’s all done, does self-doubt visit. It sits on my shoulders, like an insidious cloak, asking me why I bother.
But I do bother because I care enough for my work to give it a chance. So, what am I going to do about it? Well, that’s a very good question. There’s that famous old adage that goes something like this: ‘Take a deep breath, put on some gangster rap and deal with it.’ And that’s just what I’m going to do.
So, my plan is simple. I’m packing those bags of self-doubt. I’m chucking it out on the street, and I’m never letting it back again. It can find another place to stay. It’s not welcome here.
I’m with Snoop Dogg. I’m droppin’ it like it’s hot. (I’m so sorry.)