There’s a voice in my head that tells me my ideas are trite and useless. I have a novel in progress that has been shelved and un-shelved for years now, mostly because I keep getting doubts that it has any value, anything new to say, any potential to move another being. This uncertainty freezes me.
I am becoming more and more inclined to refuse the idea of simply writing for myself, as I deem such indulgence a luxury that I do not deserve. Sure I like simply writing and playing with words, but if something I consider a major endeavor has nothing to contribute to beyond my personal satisfaction, I feel it would be a waste of time.
How do I proceed, then?