Doubt

They appeared as spontaneous flashes of inspiration, fleeting sparks of creativity that ricocheted through my mind, exploded into ideas, and intertwined to form the complex personalities of my characters and the intricate lines of their stories. My thoughts teemed with a torrent of concepts for future narratives and personas that flowed so rapidly I could but scribble them down and wait for another day to bring them to life. My imagination felt boundless, a vast expanse of potential, until the wormlike threads of doubt began to weave their way into my thoughts.

This doubt haunted me and mirrored my ambition, swelling larger with each rejection letter and unrecognized entry into contests I once believed would vindicate my long hours of practice and dedication. It smothered my creativity with the oppressive weight of uncertainty, suffocating the bursts of inspiration that had once defined my writing like a damp blanket extinguished a bright flame. Before long, doubt had eroded my confidence, insidiously whispering, "You're not good enough. You're not a writer; you should go back to unclogging toilets."

This doubt-fueled imposter complex haunted me like a dark cloud, quashing my creativity and stripping down the hastily scribbled roster of characters and narrative ideas until only three remained: Misty, Audrey, and Mila. They were my most cherished, and I felt unworthy and too haunted by doubt to tell their stories.

Misty emerged from the recesses of my imagination as a world-weary, blue-eyed girl of eighteen with wavy blond shoulder-length hair, a cropped pink t-shirt, and light trunks designed to accentuate her femininity at the expense of her dignity. Her mother had passed away when she was just fifteen, and the burden of her shattered world weighed heavily on her shoulders. Her stepfather's expectations felt like chains, forcing her into roles that she found grotesque and unnatural. Eventually, giving up her dreams of a bright future and college education to escape his molestation, only to find herself alone, penniless, and ensnared by the insidious pull of a religious cult. The charismatic leader had promised her stability—a place to call home and food—but the price was steep. She was forced to make the harrowing decision to sell her body with the promise that her wages from sin would be used to do God's work and fund a soup kitchen or sever their ties and be thrown back onto the streets. She had nowhere to go or funds for shelter or food. The man of God had offered her a Devil's Bargain, and Misty had no choice but to take it.

In stark contrast, Mila's existence was shrouded in a dark allure. The daughter of the Angel of Death and the Serbian Goddess of Death and Winter, Mila was an immensely wealthy immortal being with the chilling power to extinguish life with just a snap of her fingers. Mila's resemblance to a fourteen-year-old Elizabeth Taylor belied her age of one hundred and twenty-four years in a compelling juxtaposition of innocence and power. A recent immigrant from the war-torn shores of Croatia, she navigated life in the bustling east coast city of New Edgarton, having learned English by watching Hollywood movies. Mila embraced the cultural shifts of post-World War II America, adorning herself in trendy pencil skirts and form-fitting sweaters, embodying a vibrant spirit that belied her dark heritage.

Both women clamored for their stories to be told. Yet, I found myself immobilized by the crippling belief that I was inadequate. Despite the countless hours spent pouring myself into five completed manuscripts and the thousands of dollars invested in editing, cover design, and printing, no one seemed interested. The harsh reality of rejection swirled around me like a relentless cyclone, leading me to doubt every word I had ever written. Misty, Audrey, and Mila deserved a storyteller who could do justice to their complexities, a voice that could convey their experiences with the authenticity they warranted—someone who wasn't haunted by doubt. Someone like Dave, a man in my writing group whose talent dwarfed my own.

Dave held a master's degree in creative writing, his travels and experiences transcending the mundane life I could only dream of. His prose flowed like a gentle river, exquisite in its construction, drawing readers into a tapestry of emotions that allowed them to live vicariously through his characters' thoughts and feelings. He could breathe life into Misty's story, capturing the essence of her despair and loneliness in a way that would resonate deeply with readers. He would portray her vulnerabilities, revealing her mistakes and the risks she'd taken, all driven by the flickering hope of a better future—hope that anchored her even as the tides of hopelessness threatened to sweep her away.

Then there was Audrey, an artist with a heart full of sorrow. She had studied art in college, her creativity visible in her peculiar sculptures of tin cans fashioned into bold dragons and clattering soldiers. Her world was irrevocably shattered when her daughter, Julia, a beacon of joy, was tragically killed in an auto accident at the tender age of seventeen. The weight of grief crushed her, leading Audrey to the bottle in a misguided attempt to dull her pain. One fateful night, driven to despair, she placed the barrel of a loaded pistol against her soft palate. She struggled to pull the trigger but couldn't bring herself to do it when a glimmer of hope forced a sliver of self-preservation to the forefront. Her close encounter with death marked a pivotal moment in her life, and the following morning, she stepped into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting determined to embark on the long and tortuous journey to sobriety. Serendipitously, Misty and Audrey's paths were destined to intertwine, guided by an unlikely overweight angel resembling Elvis Presley. Their encounters would blossom into a profound bond, where the lost girl and the grieving mother would discover a familial connection neither had anticipated.

I couldn't let them go. Even though I doubted my abilities, I also doubted that anyone cared more about these characters than I did. I knew them! They were part of me, and I was part of them. Doubt or not, only my hand could tell their stories, like Misty's Devil's Bargain. I was imperfect, untrained, and haunted by doubt, but no other person on Earth knew them well enough to bring them to life but me.