The billion dollar question (cause a million isn’t enough anymore, thank you inflation): why do I do this to myself?
I have a deadline coming up in a couple of months (which I set when I was optimistically creating my annual plans), which right now feels like it’s really far away. The time will go a lot faster than I think it will. I will look up tomorrow and suddenly it will be the last week of March because that’s what always happens. I know this, and yet… I’m struggling, once again, to get my butt in a chair to do the work. Just like my last book, Desert Home, which I released in December, I wrote the original draft of Forge and Vine, my WIP, years ago. Also just like Desert Home, I picked it up, thinking ignorantly that it was all ready to go except for final proofreading. I was wrong… again! It was okay. A short, fluffy, not too deep fantasy romance. But that wasn’t the story I had in my head. It was just all I could produce at the time with that skill and knowledge level. Upon reading it in early December, I discovered the draft is full of flaws, like a head hopping narrator, the lack of meaningful character development, and big action, namely anything that really moves the story along like conflict or even a true high stakes climax. The fact that I read the draft and felt it was lacking is actually a good thing because it means I have grown as a writer since I originally wrote the story, but it also means we are suddenly in major rewrite territory, people! All these things need to be addressed and accounted for before I can even attempt any kind of polishing in preparation for the story to be released into the wild. My current inner editor will not stand for it. Plus, I would really like to avoid being eaten alive by the trolls. There is so much work to do and an increasingly short amount of time to do it in if I want to keep to that arbitrary deadline. To be fair, if I do end up moving it, I don’t feel too bad because I set it before I had really read it through and discovered the disaster area that is Forge and Vine.
In situations like this (seemingly every time I work on something with the intent to publish), as time goes on, I get more and more frustrated, stressed, and even embarrassed with myself. This is mostly due to my own lack of energy/drive/motivation to work on my WIP as much as I want to/need to be on a day-to-day basis. Let me paint you a picture: It’s difficult enough working a full-time job, doing all the adulting, and keeping my body and mind healthy. You know, being a human. Pile on additional hours in front of the computer at the end of an already long day, or on what is supposed to be my day off when I’m trying to catch up from all the life stuff I didn’t get to during the week and it gets even harder. Forget having a social life. The actual writing/editing part is a trial in mental and emotional gymnastics on a good day. Then add all the admin stuff that goes along with being a self-published author, and it becomes a herculean effort of epic proportions. Then as a bonus on top, even when I have an incredibly productive day, there are always more tasks waiting, processes that need improving, or new skills to learn, so I end up feeling guilty and/or disappointed whenever I stop no matter how much I accomplished. The best part? This torture is self-inflicted.
Then a week like this comes around when life happens, and I don’t get anything writing related done. I mean nothing. But my procrastination is on point! Sometimes a stretch of weeks go by when little to no progress is made and my thoughts and feelings about the whole thing start to spiral. My frustration goes nuclear, then the negative self-talk starts. I start wondering if maybe I’m not cut out for this. That I’m not talented enough, smart enough, capable enough, disciplined enough. Then the comparison game starts: People who have way more responsibilities and way less time than me are thriving. There are other authors who put out seven books a year while doing all the above. What is my problem? And for that matter: Why this? Why did I decide on being a writer? There are so many other things that I love that I could focus on that don’t take near the effort. Why put myself through all this, especially when it might all just be an epic waste of time? Then I have that thought: I could just stop publishing. I could just stop putting all the expectation on myself and let it go. I could just quit. Just not be a writer anymore.
Here’s the thing: One does not simply cease being a writer. At least I can’t. It wasn’t a decision I consciously made. One day I started, and I’ve never stopped. It was as natural as breathing. True, I did make the choice to publish. But it was an evolution of who I was. And I just can’t bring myself to stop trying to grow as a writer any more than in any other aspect of my life. It is human nature to grow and change. Or, maybe I’m just being stubborn. Maybe I’m clinging to something that will never amount to anything. But just the thought of not continuing, hurts my heart. It feels unnatural. It feels wrong. To give up on something that I want so badly, that I genuinely love (even though I continually struggle to put in the time I always intend to) kills me. This isn’t the first time I’ve had thoughts like this, and I know I’m not alone. Everyone feels this way about whatever their thing is at one point or another. It happens and won’t be the last time. The thing about this feeling is that it is a cycle. I come out of it… sometimes by brute force in the form of a big, honking pep talk from the nicer side of my brain. So, here it goes.
I am a Writer. It took me years to first realize it, then practice to own it. Hell, even to be able to say it out loud to anyone was a big deal for me. Still is when I’m at a low point. Now, I’ve evolved naturally to the next step, not content to keep my stories to myself any longer. I’ve been working toward this for twenty years, even though for the majority of that time I didn’t even know it. I can proudly say that, as of last year, I’m also a published author. That one’s new enough, I still have a hard time saying it out loud in public without blushing and goon smiling like a psychopath. I think it took me so long because my inner writer was still cooking. Learning and growing and preparing until the time was right. Then I took the plunge. It was the right place, the right time, and the right circumstances for it. When I think of how far I’ve come, I am proud. And I am grateful. I am grateful that I have friends and family cheering me on. I am grateful for my creativity. I am grateful that I have the capacity to do this. Not everyone does. It is a privilege that I get to do this, and it would be a shame to squander it. I know that to be true.
I have to stick with what I know to be true. I know I am capable. I know I can figure this out. I just have to stop with all the doubt and let it happen. Let my brilliance shine. Screw all the self-deprecation, imposter syndrome bullshit. I am a Writer. Even if I never make any money from it, I am a published author, too. <cue blush and goon smile even though I’m sitting alone> It’s harder than anything I’ve ever done. It consistently pushed me outside of my comfort zone, and there is always something new to figure out. It is as much a part of who I am as my eye color. I owe it to myself to get as far as I can before I’m truly and ready to be done.
So, the answer to the billion dollar question? I do this because I’m not done yet.
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