See, here is the thing. I’m a writer. I have finally admitted to myself that I do this thing called writing. And now that I am well aware that I am a writer, I am looking past just “writing”. Now what I want is to AUTHOR.
I want to write a book. Not a book that I finish and smile at and put away. Not a book that is so amateur that I have to self publish because YE GODZ, lady, no one is going to publish that drivel. I want to author a book and then edit the crap out of it and rewrite it and edit the crap out of THAT and send it to 184 agents and have ONE say “yeah I think we can make this work” and have that agent send it to 45 publishing companies and have one of THEM say, “Yeah, we definitely want to publish this” and have my book be available at frikken Barnes & Noble where my mother– who lives on the other side of the country– can go visit a bookstore with her best girlfriend and stand there and stare at it and cry in the middle of the store and be all proud and stuff.
I want that.
But the thing is? I’m not really sure I have that kind of talent. I’m not being modest… I really struggle with whether I write that well, because I read (A LOT) and I see how authors bring certain things to the page and I just don’t have the kind of brain that paints imagery like that. I’m not sure, completely, that I can accomplish all that stuff I said I wanted to accomplish and there’s nothing worse than wanting to do something and not being able to do it.
So last night I was sad. I was grieving, a little. Grieving my dream and my goals and my wants and having a bit of a sad sack party because I wanted something and it looked like it wasn’t going to happen for me. I look at the bits I’ve written of my new project and I’m now very ‘meh’ about it. I don’t know if it’s going to take off. I still have no complete story line. I don’t even really know what it will be about. I’m having trouble fleshing out the characters and giving them interesting story lines. I don’t want to write the same book that’s been published 100 times before. I have an innate need to be different and special and stand out. I hate running with the crowd and right now I’m not even WITH the crowd. I’m behind it. I don’t feel special and different. I feel mediocre and like no one cares in the least whether I do this or not.
I don’t even really know what to do about it. Last night I was ready to scrap it. I’m just sick of this point. You know?
Today on DIYMFA, we’re supposed to be thinking about the next steps. The next project, the next goal, the next on the TO DO list. Is it editing? Is it re-drafting? Is it a whole different story? I have no clue. I don’t know what I’m doing TODAY, let alone next. I’m not supposed to be stressing, I’m supposed to be dreaming. It’s just… I find it hard to dream when I’m so frustrated. This is the feeling that makes me want to hang up my keyboard and stop pretending like I can write a book and go back to fanfiction where I am comfortable and never stick my head into original fiction ever again, because I clearly don’t have any original ideas or talent.
I know. Shut up, and all that. It’s what goes through my mind, though. Those are things I have to blog out and say to myself so i can get it out of my head and stop thinking it. And then start proving myself wrong.