The dispirited writer

Everybody has talent. Even the most untalented of people have something that they're good at. The most boring accountant or actuary you've ever met probably plays a mean bass guitar. If you find that you're truly talentless, then you haven't looked hard enough and need to try again.

For me, I love writing. I really do. And judging from the response to this blog and The Sweetest Taboo, I'm pretty good at it too.

The problem:
I'm lazy and insecure.

Oftentimes, I lack discipline and focus. I can be like an ADHD child on speed. My minds skips to seventeen different places. I can't commit to one thing. I need help focusing. Otherwis, I'm liable to walk off into unpublished author oblivion.

The problem is not that I don't want it. I do. I've wanted to do this since I was 18. I'm 27 now and life has gotten in the way of my illustrious writing career. I've read many, many, MANY times that unless you're Nora or JAK, making it in publishing, especially mass market fiction, especially romantic literature, you don't make money.

My solution was a fall back career. I went to school. Got my Bachelor's. Went back to school for my Master's. Took another test and got licensed in my chosen profession. So, now I'm sitting pretty for someone my age with no children. And no husband. And no boyfriend. And no life.

And I still can't find the time to devote to my writing.

I wish I were really brave and could just say 'Fuck it' and leave it all behind. I could live in a carboard box with only my laptop which I hide beneath my tattered tweed jacket. I would spend my days in the library. Working on my novels. Creating sexy and funny stories that I will one day sell to the masses in mass market fiction.

In actuality, even if I were to chuck it all, I'd probably be at the library, as I am right now, surfing the internet, as I am doing right now. Because I lack discipline.

Shit! The whole 'lazy' thing just never goes away!

I'm also insecure.

I think most artists are.

I want people to like me, to like my work, to lavish adulation upon me to feed the black hole that once was my self-esteem. Well, maybe more of a brown hole or a closed door with light shing from beneath the door and around the frame.

At times, I'm crippled by fear. But that just feeds my desire to do better.

So why don't I devote more time to my crafy? Is it just laziness? Am I not a good writer despite all the evidence to the contrary? Do I want it but just not enough?

What keeps people from following their dreams?