Early in my writing career, I wrote in secret — and hardly ever finished anything. If I got to the point where I could write “the end” on a piece, I’d bury it in a drawer. I was incapable of writing a whole novel. I always stopped after the first 40 pages or so. That went on for decades. The only things I finished were a few plays. That was because directors and actors were waiting for them, so I had deadlines

I felt unworthy of calling myself a “real writer.” (BWT, if you write and you’re not a wooden puppet carved by an old Italian guy named Gepetto, you’re a real writer. 😊)

So where did my feeling of unworthiness come from?

Continue reading HERE