Mid-week Faith Crisis

This is where I've been writing--the space I've been in for several mornings this week. This also happens to be where, this morning, I started to think I was not good: voices of doubt got very loud and kind of bounced off the cafe's lovely tin-ceiling.

Because, you see, the only way I can justify spending this time writing--when I could be augmenting my bouquet of adjunct positions in other more direct ways--is that I think, I HOPE that what I'm writing will improve my life in "codifiable" ways--ways I can justify to family members and myself. I mean if I essentially suck as a writer, am I wasting time and money buying this lovely tray of bread and butter?

AND--think about this:  has what become one of my central motivations for writing this winter hindered me?

 This notion has haunted me all day, which is . . . FUN.

 (The guy with the beard was writing fiction, too. I wonder how he felt about himself.)