My head feels like it's on fire right now. I've been working on this novel since March, it's mere pages away from being finished. I am an accomplished student, I write very well, I've written since I was nine years old, I've had access to an almost unending library of wonderful books, and yet - and yet. It remains so juvenile. I write, I love it; I look back and I hate it. It's like an uncooked egg. My characters are capable of great things; they are doing great things, discovering themselves, making changes in their world, and they are fresh, they are vibrant, they are alive. I can see this world so clearly that I can nearly taste the air. But when I look back on my writing it just looks so awful and juvenile, like some twelve year old wrote it. I'm 17 right now. What am I doing? Is it really as bad as I think it is? I just want my children, my characters, to succeed. I want everyone to be enthralled in their journey. I don't want success or fame, I just want to be able to tell a good story. I don't know if I can even keep writing right now.
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