Now that I know what truly sucking at writing means, I've sort of been spooked into thinking writing's no good for me...or rather I'm no good for writing. Which is total Bolshevik. If once it honestly made me look forward to the rest of my life - made the rest of my life fit together so seamlessly - why have I not been following the same zeal with which I wrote as a teen and worked hard toward the perfect life I envisioned? I can still see fiction writing as the ideal way to spend my life, but I'm paralyzed by the horrible feeling that the only thing that kept me going as teen was the false confidence I had toward my writing ability, since I'd had so little exposure to good and diverse types of writing.
I have to set aside my feelings of doubt in my ability to write if I'm ever going to feel content again. This is the one internal area at which I know I can excel. There is a peace I find in myself only when I sit down and put together words in sentences that flow. If that does not constitute a niche, then I don't know what does.
I don't know how else to express myself in this strange world.