Since I said I would talk about the bits of becoming a writer, I need to talk about this. Last night was one of those crisis moments. I was dead tired. I missed my writers group meeting (and I had a story we were going to critique). And there were two rejection letters this weekend. The gremlins started jeering.
Normally I'm pretty good at ignoring them, but I had given them some good ammo. Why did I think I could be a writer? What the heck am I doing? I'm not dedicated enough or I would have gone to the meeting, flu be damned. I could make more money focusing on the day job. I could have a more satisfactory day job. I could devote more time to the village, to my wife, the my house, to the cat. Just what did I think I was doing except wasting time, energy, and money trying to be a writer?
So I didn't get much sleep, and I still hurt. Damn gremlins. They're quiet now, but I know they're still there. I'll be okay. I'll keep writing. I know I can do this.
On the drive in to work I was thinking about a class mate I had for a fiction writing course. He just didn't get it. His prose was horrible and at best plagerized (yes, and I had to call him on it during critique). And I was wondering if I was acting the same way he did, performing the same function he did in that class, but now I was doing that on a wider stage. Damn gremlins.
5 comments:
A probably hackneyed but useful thing I always tell my students...
You are your own worst critic.
(Trying up my comment quotient.)
Yeah. It's one of those things I can push off most times. Rejection letters don't tend to bother me all that much (there's always another market). I think it was the conjunction of all three things (2 letters and not going to the group because I wasn't feeling well).
Steve,
I don't think it would help to say that the human condition in general is one of struggle and anxiety. I will mention that everyone I know gets the dreads. If someone tells you otherwise, they are either lying or on better medication that any of my friends.
Don't give it up. Not that I think you can; as the great Steven Utley says in his poem "Lust and Compulsion",
Fellow writers scoff
When I tell them, “Writing is
A mental disorder.”
“That’s crazy,” they say.
“Well, answer me, then, could you stop
if you wanted to?”
LBB, I can stop anytime I wanna. (hands shake, then a full body shake like I'm possessed with the giant willies).
Well, no, I can't.
Yep, like I said I'll keep writing. Whenever I sit down to write I hear one of the gremlin voices, but I can always shout them down (in my head). Last night it was a little harder to do that.
Yesterday I also was reading a lot of Steven Brust's Dzur. So there was also a little, "man, I wish I could write like this," and I don't think Dzur is his best work.
The bright spot of today was I realized I could send the Pirate Story to Writers of the Future. (insert evil laughter here).
Give yourself permission to rest and recover from the flu.
I know, easier said than done.
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