When I was fifteen, my father diagnosed me as a “jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none.” Although I didn’t enjoy having my mediocrity acknowledged by my paterfamilias, he wasn’t wrong. I can do many things well enough. I was a good enough volleyball player to have articles written about me in the local newspaper, but I did not earn any athletic scholarships. I was a good enough actress to be nominated for a regional theatre competition, but I did not win. I was a good enough pianist to play Bach with abandon in the privacy of my living room, but never in front of an audience. Part of the problem was that I loved sports and theatre and music equally. I refused to sacrifice one passion in pursuit of another. But that was only part of my problem.

While emotional release and creative expression are the reasons why I write, I have spent almost two decades seeking validation for my writing through the act of publishing.

Unfortunately (and despite all my knowledge about good mental health) my personal Hell with seeking validation through publication can be summed up in this terrible (anti) mantra that used to constantly float through my mind: If I write something and no one reads it, did I really write it at all?