sometimes, I think to myself

  • No one will ever want to read the things I want to write
  • No one will ever care about my characters but me
  • There are more productive things to do with my time
  • Why can’t I do something more important than worldbuilding?
  • Why can’t I do something more valuable than conlanging?
  • Why can’t I be the person everyone thinks I should be?
  • Why does nothing I do matter?

And then I try to think about every person who’s ever read my stories or poems and loved them, every encouraging word I’ve ever gotten in my anxious moments, every time someone has expressed an interest in my conlanging, and I think to myself, don’t give up yet.

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