Every story that needs to be told has already been told. And now we're telling the same things over and over again, in different words, in different colours.
Where do I fit in? Do I have a story to tell? Does anybody want to listen? My ideas are cliched, my tone amateurish. I read what I've written and wince at myself.
Yet I need to put words down. I get joy out of seeing them there, little black squiggles on white, little bits of my soul that I've squeezed out and lined up.
Maybe that's enough, at the end of the day. But not at the end of the life. Surely not?