Maunderings of a semi-literary nature

[lassarina]

Often when I read a particularly well-crafted story, it makes me ashamed of myself. I am not so brave as the main characters, so able to drive myself forward based on mere will or faith. Neither am I so deep, I think; there are many things it does not occur to me to think on until I have seen it set forth in print by someone else. I think I am, at heart, a shallow thing interested only in skimming over the surface and perenially distracted by bright sparkling things. I lack the passion and fire that makes a main character interesting. I think that, were I to be faced with a tenth of the trials endured by any given fictional character, I would crumble and shatter, broken upon the ground, rather than rise again and remake myself.

I do not know how to fix this. I hardly even know how to express it, which is an amusement all its own. I call myself a writer, yet am unable to adequately convey my own thoughts; how then am I to convincingly delineate the thoughts and driving forces of another person, a fictional creation born of my own imagination and therefore with all the faults, shallowness, and inferiority of its creator?

I am, apparently, ill-suited to my chosen vocation.