I used to think my self-doubt and insecurity about writing were signs of my profound humility. It felt noble and heroic to be this full of agonizing self-doubt. It felt lowly and meek to be so tortured about whether or not I could write. I could almost hear the soundtrack and the violins. If there'd been open, windswept moors nearby, I'd have been on them.
But that's the thing about pride. It hides itself.
The more I go on, the more I realize, it's entirely the other way round. Our self-doubt and insecurity don't reveal our humility; they mask our pride.
When you’re doubting whether you can do it, whether you're a good writer, you're looking to yourself, what you can do, what resources…