Confessions....

I'm currently experiencing one of those periods where I look upon my future career as a writer with dread.

It's a hard life, being a writer, and to be honest, I've become accustomed to an upper-middle-class life of standard luxury. I don't know what other marketable skills I have other than writing, and so what will I do for a living? I mean, I belong to an online writer's group for fantasy authors, and ALL of them are hoping to be published, but some of them write like crap, only they don't know it. Here comes the tingle of self-doubt: what if I am a horrible writer, only I don't know it? My parents think my writing is great, but they are my parents. They insist they are being subjective, but as their daughter, my instinct is to disbelieve anything positive they might say about my writing.

I mean, I might want to go into teaching (that's the only other career idea I have right now - I don't have the memory capacity or stamina to be a doctor or a lawyer, and I don't have the people skills necessary to go into advertising, and the city where I live is not enough of a cultural hub to lend copywriters any great opportunities), but will I have time for writing, then?
This whole train of thought leaves me feeling depressed and self-conscious. I feel like everything's wrong with me except for my writing, and the only reason that my writing's excluded is because I don't know for sure. I'm lazy, I can't cook, I can't clean (I'm a lazy perfectionist, which means it takes about 3 hours of lacklustre work to complete a task that should only take an hour of dedicated work), I can't keep things organized and neat to save my life, I can't shop - everything I buy shrinks, so I continually believe that my clothes look horrible on me and that everyone else knows it - I think I'm ugly, or at best, "unconventionally beautiful", I can't pay attention, I can't remember things, I'm overweight with an addictive personality (I thank God I never started smoking, or else I'd never be able to quit that - I'm having a hard time quitting a bizarre habit of rocking back and forth while I listen to music, a habit I am certain is giving me brain damage), nobody likes me, I can't make friends, or if I do, I'm inconsiderate and can never bring myself to keep in touch with them for more than a few weeks before I forget about them, I want to own cats but am now certain I could never stand to own one because I'd just be compelled to wash my hands every time I'd pet her, I'm narrow-minded and habitual, I don't like travelling or trying new things, even though those things are integral to being a good writer, I limit my writing because I don't know enough about how the world works to write well about it, and I think that I'll never know enough because I watch too much TV and keep my head in the clouds or down in the sand and never read the political bits in the newspaper, and don't even know where to start with fieldwork and research, I'm selfish, I like to talk, I spend money irresponsibly and never keep up-to-date on my finances, I'm petty, I'm immature, I'm pretty sure I'm a racist, I can't tolerate mistakes in others when I make so many myself, I think I'm losing my hearing, I label myself a devout Catholic even though I daydream about cartoons in Church half the time, I like to sing but am never willing to train myself professionally and feel envious of anyone who sings better than I do, I'm vain (during the periods where I do not think I'm ugly), I'm proud, I like to flaunt all my tiny accomplishments as if I invented How to Make Chocolate Pudding All By Myself and How To Get an Encouraging Rejection Letter, I'm vengeful towards my sisters, I manipulate my mother to get angry at my father whenever he picks on me, I'm a hypochondriac, I don't want to grow up and get my own doctor and my own dentist and my own optomitrist, I can't drive, I daydream all the time, I can't keep my room clean, I can never remember which ridiculously fruity socks my sisters wear when I do the laundry so I always give them the wrong ones, I can always find an excuse for not working (like writing in my blog), I worry all the time about being poor, I rarely give to charity, I'm always wishing that my high school years had been like the ones on TV, I feel nostalgic for when I was in elementary school and didn't have to worry about all of this, I'm greedy, I think I have an eating disorder (too much food in, instead of too much food out), I love to mooch off of others while contributing as little as I can, when given essay topics I always go for the one I think is easiest, I can't help but think that every writing idea I get has been done and re-done hundreds of times, I'm convinced I'm not up-to-speed with every other student on the university campus who talks about "the postmodernist populism of post-Imperial Britian" or some such thing involving post-whachamacallits and somethingisms, I've never kissed a guy, I'm afraid I'll die a virgin, I'm tempted to become a nun just so that I don't have to think anymore, I lie and exaggerate the facts and say I saw someone do a crazy thing for laughs when it was really me and I was too embarassed to say that I did it, I talk during movies, I'm always afraid my mother is going to die, and I can't help but think that the best years of my life are over.

And I'm only 19.