You ever get the feeling you’re not doing enough? Maybe not living up to what you’re “supposed to do?”
Sometimes I feel like I’m falling behind as far as being a writer goes. Like, there is some guidebook all other writers got on their first day, but I didn’t get it. So now I’m failing the grade, so to speak.
Right now I’m referring to how it feels like other writers are constantly pumping out writing and I’m sitting here struggling to write one thing in months. How are these people popping out stories and poetry like they’re robots? I don’t get it. Then I feel inferior like I’m doing something wrong.
Don’t misunderstand me; I have the “spells” where I go on writing bouts—the up-all-nighters where I can’t stop and I do pump out a short story or two, or a few poems, or several chapters of a book in a week or such. But, how are other writers doing this presumably all the time? Don’t you have a day job? And my day job consists of editing and writing other things, so of course I can’t concentrate on my personal writing. Grr.
How, I demand to know, how?
Maybe other writers made deals with the devil. O_O
In any case, it makes me want to get my butt in gear, so maybe it’s all a good thing. I want to write more to keep up with everyone else, but at the same time I think that isn’t necessary; I should write for me and when/where I feel like it… Sometimes I am not confident in myself or my words, though, so I don’t feel it’s worth it. But that’s a whole other blog post.
Anyway, what do you think? Do you ever think you have to keep up with everyone else?
I’ve combined my personal and “professional” Facebook pages. I have nothing to hide. I personally don’t agree with having separate ones and have always felt weird about it. Much like the radical new indie publishing world, why can’t we have a radical new way of looking at authors in the sense that what you see is what you get? I’m not stuffy or hiding anything. I am who I am. I want people to know me.
I’m also tweaking this blog to talk about lots of other things, not just my writing. It’s going to be my journey to become a published author and all the other things I go through on that journey, too. Like an outlet, kind of thing.
I’m struggling with my depression lately. It feels like I’m falling into a puddle. I just don’t want to end up in the same place I was in three years ago. I refuse to end up there. I am just trying to take one day at a time and stay in the moment.
I haven’t written much in a while, either. I have a new idea for a novel that M helped me come up with. It’s going to be a comedy. I still have that other sci-fi I’m working on, too. I have to really sit down and work on them–short stories, too.
Anyway, that’s my update.
Blade Runner 2049 movie poster
That’s a U2 song. 10 points if you got it.
I’m…here. Surviving. Trying. I guess.
I’ve had a tough time battling my Depression and Anxiety, and there have been some pretty sad family issues over the past few months. I haven’t written much. But those aren’t really the reasons I haven’t picked up the pen… I feel pretty worthless as far as being a writer goes.
I keep reading stuff by other [better] writers and getting rejection letters, so my self-esteem is pretty much at the bottom of the barrel right now. All I want to do is tell stories, you know. Save people. All this is such a broken record if you’ve followed this blog…
I finally saw Blade Runner 2049 the other night. The original Blade Runner is one of my favorite movies of all time. This sequel is right up at the top of the list now, too. I don’t know; I watch stuff or listen to music and it does something to my brain and my heart that makes me want to try again–try telling my stories again, I mean. You put that soundtrack and story together and well, I guess I am inspired again. I am now inspired to work on my sci-fi novel and maybe even some short sci-fi pieces.
But it’s in a sad sort of way. Like, “what’s the point?” I know they’ll make me happy to write, but half the reason I write is to bring joy to other people. And at the rate I’m going, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that at the level I want to. I’m losing faith in myself, I guess. Or maybe I’m just ultra-depressed right now.
I have lots of short stories out at mags and I’m still waiting to hear back on the Novel That Will Get Me Published at the newest pub. company I sent it to. It’s only been 3 months, so I probably have some more waiting to go.
Anyway, I guess I’m off to dream.
Writers are Alcoholics
Writers are alcoholics.
We drink India ink and
eat coffee grounds for breakfast.
We sit in bars,
and chasing memories.
Our eyes are bloodshot
from looking for answers
We are invincible,
shielding ourselves with words
and wielding pens like swords.
Writers are alcoholics.
We get drunk of existence
and regurgitate Heaven.
Been a while since I posted any personal writing…
I carry suicide in my pocket.
I haven’t got a death wish;
the fear of nothingness
is keeping me alive.