I arrive to the page an un-believer. I don’t believe Life wants anything from me. Don’t believe Life cares whether I write or not.
I invite the muse to midwife words worth reading, but she sends a shadow instead. I know immediately it is the part of me jealous of writers who reach people. Jealous of their accomplishments, their inner determination and commitment.
Fortunately, the muse does not leave me to despair, nor does she save me from self-examination. She urges me to tackle laziness, passivity and neglect. Counsels me to stop comparing and look within. I must ask, “how devoted am I to writing-as-practice?” and shape a soul-satisfying answer of my own.
Envy for the creative accomplishments of others is a poisoned apple.