The lure of social media and finding out what other writers are doing to achieve their goals is a seductive time-suck. Zombified, I scroll and click myself deeper into the wormy rabbit hole, certain that everyone else has their shit so much more together than I do. Every time I discover that another author feels exactly the same way, a spontaneous celebration erupts in my head. It is a confetti sprinkled mixture of belonging and something else that I don’t want to label.

I don’t want to label it because it feels a lot more holier-than-thou than I want to accept. Jebus, that’s gross. Did I just think that muddy ick? Am I one of those people who feel better when she discovers that someone else struggles more than she does with similar life lessons.

During some book research yesterday, I started wondering if I have narcissistic tendencies of which I am not consciously aware. If I did, I wouldn’t be wondering about it, I suppose. I hope that that means I’m safe from feeling compelled to devour innocent brains.

The only way to escape the apocalypse is to flee into the realm of my own writing, my own ideas, and processes. That is where it feels expansive and I get curious. When I manage to spend a whole day in that existence, I end up feeling excited and energised, ready to believe completely in the awesomeness of me.

Apocalypse in the Goddess Kindled Universe looks a lot like comparison, and it is always only a click away.

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