I do this to myself all the time. I read about successful authors. I berate myself for not being one of them. And then I just get depressed, and I write nothing. After talking myself out of throwing my lap top onto the ground (it’s pretty sad already – missing keys and all – but it’s all i can afford right now) I scurry off to my room, duck under the covers, and press my eyes closed, waiting for the bogey to go away.
Eventually I come around. Eventually, I remind myself of all the reasons I want to be a writer, which really have nothing to do with getting published.
The thing about fiction is that you can’t compare yourself to any one. Sure, Christopher Paonini might be 18 (19?) and already has signed deals with major movie companies, and everyone absolutely seems to adore George RR Martin, but the problem is, you can’t write like they do. You can only write like you do, and you can only do it as well as you can. It might not seem very comforting, but it is. Only you have that unique voice inside of you. It’s up to you to figure out how to get it out.
See? I feel better already.