Here come the random thoughts about me, myself, and my writing life. Various thoughts in no particular order that go something like this:
~ Because it’s taking so long to get to the next stage — selling a novel — I’m feeling (and this will pass, I know it will, but still, until then, it sucks) an is-this-worth-it? moment.
~ Let’s face it: Luck has its place in this biz. And, let’s face it again: Many wonderful novelists never get published.
~ I haven’t experienced forward-progress for about a year. If anything, I stepped backward a few paces because of the unsold manuscript. Now I need to impress my agent all over again with a new project. Ugh.
~ True, I completed a first draft. But. Whatever. I’ve done that before. Old hat, that. I’m ready to experience something new and exciting…
~ I’m on the outside looking in on my writing life, and it’s a disquieting feeling. Something out there is testing my mettle (what IS “mettle”?). So I say, test my mettle and be done with it already.
~ If anything, I’ve too successfully built my life around writing. Nothing much tethers me to reality — no family life, for example — so in moments like this I have nothing to fall back on, no other areas of my life I can look to and say to myself, I AM doing something with my life or I AM making a difference or I AM progressing in this or that endeavor.
~ I’ve put all my eggs in one basket and that’s bloody scary.
~ I’m in writing limbo, in-between this project and that, in-between this draft and that…
~ In truth, I’m not working hard enough; I could be accomplishing more with my days. I fritter away too much time. This blog isn’t the half of it.
~ My writing to-do list feels overwhelming yet pointless.
~ Ah well. How many times have I written posts in a similar vein? I’m boring myself, so I’d best take the dog for a walk and get on with my fruitless day.
~ The word “fruitless” is harsh, but I’ll let it stand.