Je vous copie tel quel un texte en anglais parce que c’est vraiment très très très juste et que je n’ai pas le temps de le traduire:
« »Try » is a garbage word. « Try » is a word with the excuse for
failure already built in.
« But I triiiiiied! » That means « I half-assed it, I put up a show
of getting the writing done, of sending it out, but having
assuaged my conscience by doing a little work, so I can quit,
knowing that I didn’t throw my heart and soul into it… I didn’t
hurt myself. So I didn’t REALLY fail. I just … tried. »
If you want to be a writer, you don’t « try » to be a writer. You
just write. You write like your life depended on it. You write
with everything you have in you, understanding that only the
very best you have in you even has a chance of giving you the
life and the dreams you want.
You become your own candle, lighting your own way through the
darkness of your effort, burning the fuel that dreams and hunger
and passion and desire and will give you in inexhaustible supply
if you actually USE THEM. You push yourself, you learn everything
you can, you eat, sleep, and breathe writing.
And you fail, because failure—big, loud, embarrassing, messy
failure—is the price of admission for eventual success. When
you fail, you get up, and you write some more.
You learn from every skinned knee, from every chipped tooth, from
every bump on your head and bruise on your butt, just like you
did when you were a kid.
You get the crap beat out of you by life, and you keep going.
You get tougher, you get smarter, you get BETTER. Eventually,
you get good enough, you earn your success, and you fly.
Nobody flies by trying to fly. You can’t « try » to jump off
that cliff. You either stand there shivering and let your
life and your dreams pass you by, or you commit. You jump.
It is only in the jumping that you make your little dreams into
If you just want to TRY to write, quit now. Either have the
guts to do it, or admit to yourself that you don’t want it
enough, and spend you passion on something that you DO want