Sometimes, as I wake up, and the world rushes in, I find myself filled with dread. Dear God. I’m trying to be creative. Again. I’m writing. Again. People are actually seeing the work, and reading it, too (have I mentioned my recent sales yet, again? Hm?). As shaky as this gets me, it’s not as bad as when I find myself thinking of this blog, which is mostly me thinking out loud about my own writing life, my own tiny nothing insignificant writing life, which will not be remembered or celebrated, certainly; why bother talking about it at all? I mean, do it, sure, do your bit, do what you can, make the art you must, but for God’s sake, why talk about it?
You’re not that smart, you’re not that talented. Why in the name of God would anyone want to read your take on things?
It’s a stumper.
So, what am I doing?
I want to celebrate my publications and the editors that have bought me and the publications themselves, but, by itself, that’s just narcissism, so, what else do I bring to this table? More narcissism. Narcissism mayo for the narcissism sandwich of this blog. Bon appetite.
What could I be doing? Well, I could be celebrating the work of my peers, talking about the books I’m reading that are affecting me. Of course, that is revealing, too. My reading is scattershot. The book a day habit of my teens has degenerated to a few books a month, and my criteria, for what I read, is unfathomable even to me. I read a lot of YA, I read stuff that is obviously not even aimed at me; I read things that are soothing, I read things that are reactionary, I read things that are challenging and interesting, too, but not nearly enough. Not nearly enough.
I could be projecting a kind of happy persona, a character based on me, which I would have to, of course, make up, which would be somehow… likable? A persona designed to sell my work, to magazines and eventually as books, because eventually, one suspects I must write books.
So, I could do that. I probably should do that.
Instead I lurch out here and tell some version of the truth of what is going on inside my somewhat ordinary mind.
Seriously. What the fuck.
I have bragged here about word counts, and its time to come clean and admit that, because (insert life-based excuse here) I am barely managing a few hundred words a day, which is fine, if you’re Hemmingway, but I’m not, I’m 50 and I have to get off my lazy ass and get this shit done, toot fucking sweet. (Suite?)
My stuff is selling, in a variety of ways. I should be making more. Even if some of what I make I can’t send out, because, after I cool down and look at it, I see, ok, not good. That’s no reason to stop. No reason to stop. No reason to stop. Right? Right.
Wish me luck.