C
Chessie
Guest
So...yeah, it's happened. I've hit a wall, a wall of fear and it's now impossible for me to work. It all started innocently enough by dusting off a short that I wanted to edit.
The wave of stupid washed over me. Whoa, who wrote this crap? Yeah, uh, just who do I think I am trying to get stuff published? Oh, no. This story is terrible. Everything I write is terrible. All my ideas are shallow and should be drowned in a bucket of NOPE.
I don't know. Maybe I'm trying to do too much at once. I've had to put aside my fantasy work to focus on this series that might not even sell reasonably. This is all just so stupid. My relatives think I'm going to fail. My friends have no idea what the hell I'm up to in my mountain fortress everyday. They can't get me out of the house if they tried...and they gave up long ago.
Sometimes I wonder how the heck I'm going to send my kid to college on a writers' salary.
People probably laugh at my idea of a dream, which is signing books at Barnes & Noble but now they're going under and I'll probably never publish with an actual publishing house anyway.
Did manage to find an affordable editor in my genre that came upon recommendation, but will she hate my work, too? I'm ready to hear the truth and want to, but what if she calls it crap splashed on a canvas?
And it's not my prose that's the problem. I have no idea how my prose sounds to the world and have no way of knowing. What I'm talking about here is the fear of getting the structure down, of being a laughing stock: this story is dumb! What five year old wrote this?
I may not be good enough to publish stories. Learning how to construct them has a super steep learning curve I'm still climbing. I read these awesome books and know that they're weaving a tale impossible for me to match. But I've been doing this writing thing all my life...and I'm still not there.
Ugh. Bad morning.
The wave of stupid washed over me. Whoa, who wrote this crap? Yeah, uh, just who do I think I am trying to get stuff published? Oh, no. This story is terrible. Everything I write is terrible. All my ideas are shallow and should be drowned in a bucket of NOPE.
I don't know. Maybe I'm trying to do too much at once. I've had to put aside my fantasy work to focus on this series that might not even sell reasonably. This is all just so stupid. My relatives think I'm going to fail. My friends have no idea what the hell I'm up to in my mountain fortress everyday. They can't get me out of the house if they tried...and they gave up long ago.
Sometimes I wonder how the heck I'm going to send my kid to college on a writers' salary.
People probably laugh at my idea of a dream, which is signing books at Barnes & Noble but now they're going under and I'll probably never publish with an actual publishing house anyway.
Did manage to find an affordable editor in my genre that came upon recommendation, but will she hate my work, too? I'm ready to hear the truth and want to, but what if she calls it crap splashed on a canvas?
And it's not my prose that's the problem. I have no idea how my prose sounds to the world and have no way of knowing. What I'm talking about here is the fear of getting the structure down, of being a laughing stock: this story is dumb! What five year old wrote this?
I may not be good enough to publish stories. Learning how to construct them has a super steep learning curve I'm still climbing. I read these awesome books and know that they're weaving a tale impossible for me to match. But I've been doing this writing thing all my life...and I'm still not there.
Ugh. Bad morning.