The Seed Of Doubt

This week sees the ramblings from a tormented mind.
     Firstly my shifts last week were horrendous, two twelve hour and three six hours in that place kills my creativity and gives me no time to write, hence the missed blog of last week. Also, I loath my day job with a passion. I do not feel like a 'valued member of the team' simply a body to fill a vacancy. If I were to break down or die, I could easily be replaced.
     I did manage to write a little last week, I penned a 250 word flash fiction for Massacre Magazine, which for a while I was quite happy with. I'm not usually happy with anything I write, when I re-read it, its like being back at school . . . could do better. I also wrote about eight pages of my novel, but with time being so short, by the time I've got back into it, I have to leave it as something else demands my attention and if that wasn't bad enough, someone planted the seed of doubt.
     As well as writing horror, I collect horror related items and recently brought on ebay a creepy looking black Victorian dolls pram, it was a reproduction so only cost £20. The seed planter then proceeded to tell me I had wasted my money and could have used it for something more important instead, which strangely got me thinking about my writing. Instead of wasting money, was I wasting time?
     I have always written because I enjoy it and like most people, with a view to publication, dreaming of the 'big one,' the book that will launch my career. But is that all it is? A wild dream. Am I wasting my time chasing shadows than can never be caught? Could I be doing something more productive instead?
     I had the day off work yesterday and decided to catch up on my novel, but the seed was germinating and like a weed was suffocating my creativity. Words wouldn't come, sentences were truncated and paragraphs died on the page. Suddenly I thought, who am I kidding; I'm never going to be the next Anne Rice or Steven King. I'm 48, I have health issues, time is not on my side, so why am I sitting here tormenting myself with something I might not be any good at?
     My dream has always been to live in a nice little house by the sea and make my living from writing. Maybe I'm deluded, dreaming the impossible dream. Maybe I should just keep my stories for myself and write just for pleasure, or maybe I should give up entirely, I'm not sure anymore.
     Writing has always been a pleasure, something to look forward to, like visiting an old friend, but it feels like my paper friends are turning against me. They are disinterested and sullen like a sulky child and all because of the seed.
     Maybe the seed was a wake up call, or simply a throw away comment, either way, it made me think. But maybe that was a good thing. To think is to have ideas and ideas are what a writer needs. Maybe next week I'll feel better. Should I do some serious gardening and get rid of the weeds? Or do I let them take over and turn my fertile garden into a wasteland?