Hypercritical

I haven’t published ANYTHING in a couple of months. It’s depressing me a little.

Now, I realize I’m being hypercritical of myself. I am watching the word counts go up, the chapters get finished, the edits work… but the bar I placed, publication, isn’t happening. It hasn’t happened in a few months, and it bothers me.

Objectively, this is ridiculous. Other authors spend months writing, editing, and publishing novels. If you go through the gambit of traditional publication you may only see one or two books A YEAR come out. I did eleven, in six months.

I should be proud of myself. I should be happy with my progress. But ultimately, it isn’t enough.

But I think this is a good thing. If it were enough then I wouldn’t be pushing myself so hard to write more. If it were enough then I wouldn’t be striving to up my word count, fix my formating and spelling on older books, or attempting to come up with book covers that don’t suck too much.

I am taking comfort in the fact that this isn’t enough, because it means this is incredibly important to me. To go farther, write more, and tell my damn stories to everyone willing to listen.

My stories should be seen. They are worth it. It’s never going to be “enough”, so I’m just going to have to get better.

Brains are weird

Imagine a person standing against a board. On the other side of the board is another person. As long as they both push against that board it doesn’t move.

The one on the nearside is just trying to hold the wall up. All they care about is keeping the normality at a steady level. Keep the wall strait. Hold on. Steady.

The guy on the other side of the wall… he’s an asshole. He keeps pushing on that wall. Pressing in, trying to demolish the house the first person made.

Sometime the ass gets tired, and he wanders away. Bored. Other times he pushes harder, or enlists help. Some days…. some days he has a tractor and he manages to knock the wall down.

The girl inside… she just wants to build her house. So she picks up the pieces and puts it back together, and guards the wall. Hoping to keep it up. Hoping to keep it steady the next time he attacks.

After a while she doesn’t leave the wall anymore. And when he stops pounding on the walls she gets nervous. Constantly waiting for the next blow.

The blows become normal. They become natural. They become her world.

So when you take down the wall and set her free… it’s so hard to just be normal.

And then something good happens. Someone actually pays attention, or god forbid, helps her build that wall. It’s shocking, even terrifying, because it isn’t normal. Not to her. Not to the life she’s lived for so many years, trapped inside those walls.

I realize these things. I know my brain is lying to me when a good thing happens and I start waiting for something horrible to happen. Nothing horrible has really happened in the last four years…

Like the Blogess says… Depression is a lying bastard.