High school valedictorian.  Summa cum laude in college.  Overachiever to a fault.

And oh how I compare myself to others!

… and a writer.  What a devastating combination.

I love to write, and I have this burning desire in me to be an EXCELLENT writer.  There is a fire lit beneath me, and it keeps me writing and reaching and trying to hard to do something incredible with words.

But sometimes it feels so futile.

What if my best is not excellent?  What if my very best– all that I can possibly offer– is okay?  So-so?  Mediocre.

It drives me wild.  It makes me want to climb mountains for the answer, whatever that looks like.  Going back to school.  Getting more instruction.  Reading more books.  Reading the right books.  It makes me frantic.

No, I tell myself.  You are growing exponentially.  You’re 10 times better than you were in college, when you were 10 times better than you were in high school.  

But I still feel scared, frenzied, nervous.  Everyone seems to write better stories– funnier characters, better diction, cleverer plots, smarter concepts.  I want to somehow breathe in wisdom and then exhale with my fingertips on the keyboard, letting something beautiful happen.  Not just beautiful.  Exquisite.

Instead, it’s okay.  Even good.  But I want to be a great writer.

What if I give all that I have … and it’s only okay?

I don’t want my life to be a waste.  I don’t want to be mediocre.