Eternal (what do you see?)

I have lately wrestled with the value of my own life, that is not to say that I wish it to end, that is to say, I wonder what was the point?

I know this is born from frustration, anger, jealously, self loathing, and occasional over exposure to toxic internet sources.

"Real writers" is a conversation that eats at my brain virtually every day, and from there I am robbed a little more of my value. You see, I have a 13th book coming out in November, but there are those who would argue, that because I have no agent, and no publishing house, that I am not a real writer.

That my efforts to share stories with the world, are robbing the deserved and learned of their rightful place in the pantheon of great writers.

I often wrestle with the idea of just giving up, putting my writing together, and just writing as an outlet, leaving it unpublished, unread, unworthy.

But I often feel that were I to do that, I would be giving the toxic minority a say in my wellbeing, and that is something I simply cannot do.

Today is 7 months until my next book. I will then begin the countdown to the next one, and so on and so forth, I will never stop, much as my imposter syndrome might demand I should.

If for nothing else, I persist to annoy those who are toxic to me.