"You've got to be crazy to think that you can writer. Never mind that you're not some Ernest Hemingway or Mina Loy, you've got no time. None!
You should be taking care of your family, feeding and clothing them, making sure they're well-rounded and properly educated. You need to make soccer ball cake pops for the soccer wind-up, and ensure that the boys' teeth are properly brushed and flossed. Your yard should be immaculate, and it's certainly a far cry from that right now. Your house should be perfectly ready for company at all times, no recycling or laundry in sight. Your dogs should be paragons of canine virtue. You can't even do any of these things right now, so how the hell do you expect to manage to keep up all that and write?
And, while we're on the topic, who do you think is going to actually read your writing? You have the audacity to even think you'd be able to publish anything? As if! You haven't a hope in hell and you know it. Even if your writing were quasi-palatable to the most meagre of readers, where do you think you're going to get the time to edit, to make it perfect? Your family—remember them? Get off your lazy ass and go do something productive and beneficial. Don't you have some laundry to do?"
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I take great delight in listening to this mental crap every time I sit down to write, then I give it the metaphorical finger and begin writing anyway.
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