The Final Time? It Begins

I have a great story. I'm supposed to jot down the first chapter (at least the first chapter) by Sunday this week IOW tomorrow, and I haven't even started yet. I've been stalling, stalling, and then for a change of change - stalling, and though I may think that I've been efficient doing other things, this story has been gnawing on my mind for much of that time. If I had started writing when I first had the impulse to write, it would've been done and over, and I might be on my way into future chapters already, so why didn't I?

Mainly, it's my confidence, or lack thereof. It's continually telling myself that maybe I don't have what it takes. Maybe at the moment when I feel like writing, I don't have what it takes to write as well as I could have written the start of what I'd like to be my initial masterpiece and milestone in my literary carreer. So I wait for the opportune moment, the opportune moment which is: when I have accomplished all other tasks I have set myself in anticipation of this one, tasks which I keep setting for myself and am continually plagued by a hopelessness in achieving.

There is no opportune moment.

I know this as well as I know that writing this is just another form of stalling. I call it motivation, but when you have motivation, you don't stall, you do. A motivated writer writes. I am writing... am I motivated? What baffles me is this thing that I classify as lack of confidence, cause I don't really lack any confidence. I don't mind confiding in the rest of the world that I lack confidence, and if that isn't a sign of confidence then what is? What is really the problem here, what is the root of this procrastination that makes me such a square? Could it be that I set too high expectations for myself, that I dream too far ahead, pass time on planning and fail to live in the moment?

Thinking I should start writing, I start considering potential titles for the poetry collection I may release if I ever get famous. It'll consist of three parts, three phases in life that I have overcome... but in reality I am still living in the first and foremost one: I'm stuck, I'm still, stalling.

At this point, I no longer know what I want to accomplish with this post. Has it been accomplished already, have I maybe made it clear to myself the reasons why I do what I do; think what I think? Or that there is no reason and thus no reason to keep reasoning? Why am I still writing then? What conclusion am I to deliver to you, fellow readers, potentially people in the same situation, searching for purpose, doubting your own abilities, or maybe unwilling to change your life, not ready to let go of the past, hesitant to let go of anything, continually accomplishing so much and yet in retrospect feeling like you have accomplished nothing at all? There is no conclusion. This is still the beginning.