The letter came via email. The author was in dire need of help. I will call her “Amie” for the purposes of this column because that is her legal name.

“I’m a writer. I am four years into writing a novel for fun at night and on the weekends. This is where I’m hoping you can throw a line:

“I’ve been staring at the computer since before Christmas, to finish my novel. I’m desperate to be creative, but it’s just not happening right now. Your wisdom would be oh so appreciated. Thank you.”

Amie, let me start by saying that I don’t normally answer writing questions here, for two very important reasons: (1) when you write a column about the professional craft of writing, your credibility can be utterly destroyed if you have so much as one typo, and (2) i’m not grate at speling

Furthermore, I suck at writing.

To my knowledge, I have never read anything I’ve written and said to myself, “Wow, that doesn’t suck.” Normally I read my own work, wad up the page, and start drinking malt liquor.

I can almost guarantee this kind of self-doubt is what’s holding your creativity back, Amie.

But I have some very good news for you. There is a secret I’ve learned in my time as a fledgling fellow writer, and this little tidbit has helped me immensely:

Everyone else sucks, too.

SSSSSSHHHH! Don’t tell anyone!

The professionals really don’t want you to know they suck. Many writers spend a lot of time, energy and money trying to convince people they don’t suck. But them’s the facts, ma’am.

And the fact is, everyone sucks equally. Because we’re human beings. Sucking is what we do. We’re experts at sucking. Sure, occasionally one of us humans might accidentally crank out “War and Peace.” But eventually, we’ll go back to sucking again. We always do.

Many classic works of literature suck. If you don’t believe me, just ask an auditorium of high-schoolers what they think of “Moby Dick.” Most will tell you flatly, it sucks pond water. Others will accompany this statement with elaborate armpit sounds.

And just think, in a few years, these teens will be running the country.

The truth is, if someone wrote “Moby Dick” in today’s fiction market, word for word, that person would be living in a refrigerator carton.

So it is my firm belief that you probably don’t suck any more or less than any other writer alive. Or any other human for that matter. You just happen to be more aware of your suckage than the average Joe because you are a writer.

Writing, you see, is essentially the act of examining stuff. Be it fiction, non-fiction, poetry, or writing instruction manuals for Japanese electric toasters. You’re always examining. Tearing apart. Probing. Constantly scrutinizing.

Moreover, you’re probably drawn to writing because you actually LIKE examining things. You probably walk down the street silently examining the grammar on various signs and posters. Like the sign I saw yesterday which read:

“ILLEGALLY PARKED CARS WILL BE FINE.”

Although this sign was nothing compared to the sign I saw in West Virginia which read:

“ALL SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSTITUTED.”

We word lovers have a knack for examining things. We love to dissect. So it’s only natural that you would occasionally dissect yourself, too. Which is a dangerous thing to do.

Because you are a person. You are flawed. You are real and imperfect. You have bad hair days. Your body creates unpleasant smells. You make unwise decisions. You can be selfish, egocentric and self-centered just like the rest of us.

You don’t need me to tell you these things, you already know this about yourself.

The problem is, you know yourself too well. And whenever you examine your work, this is what you’re thinking about. That means you aren’t really judging your writing per se. You’re judging yourself.

I would venture to say that when you read your own prose, most of the time you’re scrutinizing the person who wrote it instead of the content.

“Jeez!” you say to yourself. “What an idiot!”

But here’s the thing. It’s not your job to call yourself an idiot. Plenty of high-schoolers will be happy to do this for you.

So here’s my advice: allow yourself suck. Suck with all your heart. Write the worst book ever written. Make the worst word art known to humankind.

But just do it. You don’t have to be great. You don’t even have to be good. You have only one job in this world, and that is to love what you love.

So start with yourself.