I admit it: I have issues with my competency as a writer. And I think it is healthy (sometimes).
Getting through the rough patches where we don’t believe in ourselves can be difficult. Just ask some of the people I know. For me, I have to find my own way—whether it takes me a few hours or a few weeks. Eventually, I wipe the dust off and start again. It’s nice to have a rest, even if that rest is in the dark gloomy forest of I’ll Never Be Good Enough.
A recent event triggered this particular feeling in me, and I went home disappointed in myself—despite my small successes. I realized after not thinking about it particularly, that this stemmed from my insatiable desire to want to have experienced everything. And that will never happen. I’ll never be able to experience everything, no matter how hard I try. 12th century China? Um, yeah. Out of the question. So I’ll have to be contented with my imagination.
Another thought passed through my head at this realization: those writers that had made me jealous, perhaps had failed at what they attempted to do: make me experience what they had (I must note, that their words may work expertly on another, and on me not, and vice versa). So perhaps a combination of the two ideas therein allowed me to feel better again.
Of course, from this experience, I will want to grow as a writer. I should always strive to be better and accept how I am at the moment.