aha!

i used to love to write. poetry, short stories, quotes, and even quick observations of the world around me were all pieces i felt excitement and anguish over in my youth. it's not like i'm an old lady now who finds no value in such works. it's just that i have lost the ability to believe that anything i write is of quality or interest. why did i lose this love? pride. low self-esteem. teen angst. i suppose they all come into play. i let one individual's biting remarks and sour attitude impact me so deeply that i ultimately let my pen lay idly by for the last 10 years of my life. foolish, isn't it? and while i certainly concede that i am no zora neale hurston or emily dickenson or sylvia plath, i was beginning to develop a style of my own creation when i let my feelings of doubt consume me. instead of realizing that life is full of critics and using this individual's disdain for my work as an opportunity to produce more polished works, i retreated with my tail tucked safely between my legs and my head drooping to the ground. simply put - i gave up.