Feeling sorry for myself

Sometimes, when I read John Crowley, I despair of ever writing a novel. My thinking is not broad, or deep, or organized enough to ever put together the moving parts needed to make an entire world move and live, and breathe and sing. I am work-shy, and impatient, and do not have the stamina to bring anything to completion, except by showing up every day. The only thing I have to offer is the ability to show up every day. My dogged refusal to stop.