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So I’m a little angry with myself today. Mostly because I’m starting to get sick of being needy.

Psychologically speaking, I may be a fuckup, but I like to kid myself I’m an independant fuckup. I am a fuckup with pride. I may even be a fuckup with integrity.

So why is it that whenever I create anything, be it a piece of fiction, a sketch, a painting, I can’t seem to be happy with it unless someone else is?

Lord knows, I try. I want to go back to those heady days when I was young and the thing itself was what mattered, not the reception. I used to write in secret. Didn’t show anyone, like writing was something grubby that it was better I kept to myself.

(Just to give you an idea: this was when I was writing in longhand, using a Parker pen with washable blue ink, on lined paper. Double sided. We’re not quite in stone tablet territory here, but close enough, methinks)

And it was enough, god help me, it was enough. To write, and to read back to myself: to be pleased by what I saw and to enjoy the world or character I had created. It was enough.

And yet somehow I’ve become slavish: writing, drawing, posting online, waiting for someone to tell me “hey, not bad.” Look at me, the great ETG. I mean something. Some random teenager told me I can draw cats “not bad.” I’m king of the world.

My name’s EasyThereGenius, and I’m a validation junkie, and I’m pretty damn annoyed.

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