Ignore the Gremlins

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A couple weeks ago I had an opportunity to attend a writing/poetry fair at a local college. Many vendors, authors, and lovers of books and writing attended.

Several panel discussions took place throughout the day and I wanted to attend one of them because mystery author Walter Mosley was going to be speaking. I wanted to hear what he had to say and to possibly get his autograph on my copy of Devil in a Blue Dress.

 Long story short, M and I ended up leaving before the panel discussion. Truth is, I felt very out of place. I later told M it was because I felt like I didn’t belong; it seemed like there were more “relevant” and “creditable” writers there. I felt very small.

M and my psych both told me that it was silly to feel that way, and now I believe they’re right. You shouldn’t feel like you’re any less of a (insert profession or even person here) because a) someone makes you feel that way, b) strange environments, or c) especially because you let your self-doubts get the best of you. I started to doubt myself and my own writing and so I got depressed and nervous.

But, who’s to say I don’t belong there, rubbing shoulders with “the best of them?”

Nobody, that’s who.

So don’t listen to that little gremlin in your head who says you can’t do it and you’ll never match up. Because you can and you do.

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Keeping Up With the Joneses

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You ever get the feeling you’re not doing enough? Maybe not living up to what you’re “supposed to do?”

Word.

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?

-JCDK

Running to Stand Still

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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.