It’s a simple question, really. And I remember, in the early days of my writing career, when I was asked the question, I would immediately jump onto the defensive, as if he who had asked it were trying to cast doubt upon my abilities.
Do you have what it takes?
I’ve asked the question of myself a hundred times. And answered it. If I were completely honest, I would tell you that I answered it knowing that I didn’t understand the full breadth and scope of the six seemingly benign words.
Do. You. Have. What. It. Takes?
To answer the question in it’s simplest form, replying to that which I understood and ignoring the margins, well, yes. Yes, I do. I know a lot of words. A LOT of words. And I can string them together to make sentences both concise and complex. I can form a plot, make a scene work. All things I’ve had to learn over time. I write cracking dialogue. Once my greatest weakness, it is now probably my greatest strength. I have learned. I have more yet to learn. But yes, to answer the question in it’s most basic context—or perhaps, as I, in my basic understanding, understood it…. Yes. Yes, I do have what it takes.
Or do I?
Because what I did not understand until fairly recently, is that when you have talent, people suddenly see you as a threat. To what, I’m not sure. It’s not a concept I’ve ever been able to quite fully grasp. But I do know that there are a great many people out there who consider themselves the masters of their art. Funny, really, when you think of it, since I know very few forms of art with only one master at the helm. And yet people do, for whatever reason, feel the need to ‘own’ their talent, as if they have some kind of stake and claim to it that others do not deserve. As if there’s some prize to be had for gaining a monopoly. There isn’t.
I’ve made my own mistakes. I confess it. I’ve behaved out of pride (and usually called out for it). As posted in a recent article, I’ve also behaved out of vanity (and am still paying some of those consequences.) But it’s a habit of mine, in dealing with people, to pull the rug out from under my own feet. I want people to like me, so much so, that I will sometimes sabotage myself, so that the other person feels they have the greater power. To avoid, if I can, any sense of threat or competition. I do not like to offend, even if it’s to let someone know they have caused offense.
This is something, if I want to succeed, that I must quit doing.
Another part of this question I had not realised before, or did, but did not grasp the breadth of, was the fact that I am extremely introverted. All 
these guest posts, and reviews, interviews, newspaper articles, readings, signings and other appearances, whether live or in virtual reality really frighten me. And I don’t mean at the time they are given or posted, but always. The more I put myself out there, the more vulnerable I become. I find myself, in the wake of increased sales, becoming depressed, having a hard time getting out of bed. I’m tetchy, emotional. I don’t want to leave my house.
So do I? Do I have what it takes? Can I make the appearances? Can I do the readings without stumbling over my own words, without my knees literally knocking so hard I can barely stand? I don’t know. All I can do is try. It is, after all, too late to go back.
Can I keep writing? Keep publishing? The answer, really, is I must! Because there are two books waiting in the wings, done for all intents and purposes, though there are several rounds of revisions ahead. There are half written stories, too. There are files full of ideas. There are half a dozen short stories waiting for a purpose. There is more I want to say.
Do I have what it takes to meet the deadlines? To get up each and every day and sit in front of the computer screen when I’d rather be outside, or keeping up with the housework? Do I have what it takes to persist when the umpteenth final, FINAL revision is due? When the reviews come in, some good, some bad? When the people you thought were your friends write scathing reviews, and condemning blog posts full of professional criticism and unprofessional fury? Do I have what it takes to help promote the authors in my writing groups whose talent deserves to be appreciated, even when I know they personally despise me for reasons I have no control over? Can I do it gracefully? Even when it hurts? Even when it’s personal? Even when it’s not? Do I have what it takes?
Well…do I?
I consider the question carefully.
Damn straight, I do!
