I’m having one of those why do I bother sort of days. I read pages 13-23 of Gemma Goes to Hollywood last night at my writers’ group and I came home hating my writer friends. Because they are talented, because they are successful, but mostly because their critiques sting…not because they were mean, but because they were right. I hate that. Insightful, honest, helpful creeps. All of them.
I look at my writer friends I wonder what makes them get up in the morning, why do they have the ability to sit at the computer and write story after story, what feeds their motivation and how can I get some that to come my way? Before I remember that I have published five novels and that I have about 7 novels in my head. I don’t need ideas. Maybe if I had less ideas, I would feel better about not writing.
If I can’t/won’t write, then I read. I picked up a bestselling, award winning book and read about half of it. Hated it. Because it’s not mine. I don’t know if I can finish it. I don’t know if I can finish the novel I started—the unbestselling, nonaward winning one I’m (not) writing, or I was writing. Past tense writing.
I’m gripped by self doubt. I wonder if I should be feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, engaging in a crusade to save an endangered species. But I don’t know how to do those things. I do know how to write stories.
Today is Thursday—errand day. So, I don’t even have a toilet to clean (did that on Tuesday) or a shelf to dust (did that yesterday.) I could go to the store, but someone already did that for me. More helpful creeps. I’m surrounded by them.
On days like this I need to remember where I started and where I’ve been. I recently discovered Amazon’s Author Central. They put my career on a chart. It’s all spiky, with peaks and valleys, with a gradual uphill slope.
I can’t see where I’m going. It’s like running on a foggy day—one foot, or one sentence in front of the other. The only thing I can be sure of, if I stop running or writing, I’ll get nowhere pretty fast. Hate that.