The work is not the work?

I am sitting writing. I want to have a great short story or novel that someone else can read and be changed by or find rest in, or experience some pleasure in knowing another character as a true friend.
I am reworking a story/narrative that has a female preacher, because I want to be one. I don't want to give personal testimony (because the words feel stale) and I don't even feel qualified to interpret the bible, nor to my shame, do I spend much time trying, but I want to say something that makes people believe in God and themselves as his children and live! Yesterday I felt the opposite, struggling to prepare a snack and wanting to sleep.

As I scribble now, I keep thinking, but I should be working. My friend Melissa said the same thing last night. [She feels to me like one whose existence somewhat makes my own more important.] She has been living her dream of writing in Thailand, yet she too wonders if she is really doing the work she is supposed to be doing. Being content in working and living out my calling, I have to fight the critic that says you'll never be enough and its someone else's fault and out of my control, so I should just quit already. My counter for right now is that wherever I am, I am enough.

But that too is false. I'm not enough, but Christ is, he has to be! Then as I doubt, I cry it out, "Please be enough!"

I ordered a new traveling guitar [because my other one isn't enough] that will be easy to transport, and I obsess about where it is in the postal system and when it will arrive, but I fear that like when I picked up my last Seagull acoustical guitar, the minute I get it, I will stop playing. My fear is that the object will take all my attention and I will miss out on my fingers picking at its strings. I still feel guilty because I play mellow life stories, and nothing connected with Jesus. The conflict tears my in two and I consider not playing. Is this tension my conscience telling me to change, or a demon trying to get me to give up trying?

My adult self can look at all of this and say again, "I'm free from worrying about failing. I will fail and look up to Jesus for his knowing and loving and hope for me and then go on and fail again." I can also play music, and tell stories and now matter the content, it speaks to who God is or who he isn't. My work is to keep at the work of listening, because Christ is no longer a pile of bones and strips of fabric rotting in a dark cave and therefore, neither am I. Asking myself the question the angel asked Mary, "Why am I looking for the living among the dead?" I am free to sit and write or not write about a female preacher or a homeless heroin adict as I seek to know what it means to be known by Christ.