I’ve made a huge leap forward. I am in the habit of writing again, and I honestly feel uncomfortable, and distracted if I haven’t written for a day. I skipped two days of writing last week because family life got in the way and I went to bed kind of upset with myself. Ended up writing even more the next project day and still felt like it wasn’t enough. I still wanted to write, and wanted my body and my schedule let me.
So, on the plus side, I have my neurosis back… the inability to put down a pen, and an insatiable desire to tell a story. In my case a computer and phone. I am now almost always thinking of things I can write. “Osiren’s Tears” is coming along nicely, and the next project, “Star Crossed” is a really interesting SF/romance that I am actually looking forward to writing (and refusing to let myself till ‘Osiren’ is done.)
So what’s the set back?
Since I have decided to make a concerted effort to publish, and be an author, not just a writer, I am having to deal with some other issues of my insecurities.
Writing itself, putting words on the page, was always easy for me. Words came, stories flowed, and I loved it. The reason I stopped writing all those years ago had absolutely nothing to do with the words. The words, and the stories, were still there. It had far more to do with acceptance.
I had several articles, short stories, and poems published in some magazines and e-zines a few years ago, but I never got paid for any of them even though the contract said I would. It was incredibly frustrating, and all the nice words from their fans, and even an award, wasn’t enough to make up for the fact that they never bothered to pay me. Wasn’t I worth the few dollars they promised me for all my hard work?
Couple this with my personal life…
I have found talking about some of the things from my past to be cathartic. Sometimes I’ll hear from others who lived through similar things. Sometimes I’ll just get some kind words. Other times it just feels good to get it off my chest.
So… I was told often, and repeatedly, for years, that I would never amount to anything. That no one would ever love me. That everyone who even talked to me just wanted to use me. They didn’t care about me, didn’t care what I did, what I said, or what I thought. And I was often put in situations that reinforced those ideas.
So now when I look at that brand new shiny microphone I just bought and say to myself “I could just say hello to people”… Some quiet part of my soul screams from the shadows “No! Don’t humiliate yourself like that!”
That voice wins far too often for my comfort.
Here is the gist…
Every time I finish a book I look for reasons not to publish it because then I don’t have to get bad reviews. I don’t have to feel rejected. Or hurt. Or afraid. Worrying that no one will ever buy it, ever read it, or ever care what I have to say.
It is hard to divorce yourself from the work, let it go, and say… do your worst!