Just not Sure

I have been doing a lot of self-examination lately concerning my writing.
Self doubt really.
I'm reading this terrific book about Edna Millay, I just
have fallen in love with her. I don't really care for her style poetically
but man I feel a kindred ness about her that's hard to explain.
It has caused me to reflect on my talent and drive. I think I am realizing that I
am too inconsistent to be truly good.
I sit around in my comfortable, static suburbian environment longing desperately for a Bohemia, a revolution to shake me from my cocoon and there is just... life.
I mean I'm so fantastically happy and satiated and maybe that's the issue.
I have no momentum to carry me beyond this point of growth artistically.
I'm not sure what's wrong.
I feel mopey and apathetic and disappointed in myself.