So it’s a tough time for me now, writing wise, which isn’t really intuitive, but there it is. My recent streak of sales should be inspiring, and in fact, it has been; I’ve written a lot of new words, writing to a schedule for a while now. The problem is none of it is anything I can send out.
I’ve had some family, life stuff, of course, but everyone has that, all the time, so it doesn’t feel worth mentioning.
So. I know I need to just write and trust the process, trust myself, trust the universe, let go of expectations for each thing I write, let it be what it is and go on to the next and be glad I can write anything at all; not everyone can. Knowing what you should do and doing it are two different things.
Odd influxes of people reading the blog lately, too, which is strange. Generally speaking I get a few readers every time I post and then the thing dies back to almost nothing. Huh.
Anyway, my goal for the week is to write 1000 words, every day, in a different place; I’ll post some shots of the interior, I’ll drink the coffee, and I’ll bang out words. If I have to write ‘all work and no play makes jack a dull boy,’ I’ll do that. I’m dead serious.
Part of me wants to just give up and look for regular employment. I had my little moment. It’s over. Some bit of pent up something has spilled out and maybe it will regenerate and maybe it won’t. I need to nurture whatever tiny spark there is inside me, marshall it, not just keep expecting it to roar out of me…
Well, fuck that. I’m fifty. I could be dead tomorrow, in six week, in ten weeks. Hey, if I want to write a goddamn novel? I have to write it NOW. If all there is in me is another ten unpublishable novellas, fine. Whatever. I’m writing the damn things.
I wish I could say it was getting easier. Everybody else seems to know what they’re doing, to have some kind of clue, but me? No idea.
But today the voices started in again, the characters and stories were boiling away, again, and who knows if they’re any good or not really. I guess that’s not for me to decide.
I can do this. Is it worth doing really? Will I ever have fans, people who really care about my work, people who buy something because my name is on it? Can I finish a novel; if I can, can I market or sell it, and if I can, will anyone buy it? Who knows.
But I can write. I know I can. All I have to do is lower my standards, and a tidal wave of crap pours out. I’ll pick through that. If it’s garbage it’s garbage and I’ll chuck it.
Trust the process, trust the process, trust the process. Say it with me. Trust the process.