As I sit here tweaking the next draft of my latest MS, I can’t help but think that this is the THIRD book I’ve managed to write in two years.
I’m no James Patterson, but that’s a fuck ton of words.
And then I’m overwhelmed by this weird sadness.
I think, I’ve devoted so much time to this writing life–not just the two years of solid writing, but another 4 years of learning how to do it in the first place. I’ve poured so much of what I see as my identity into this title–WRITER–that the moment I deviate from the routine, or think for even a minute that I’d want to do something else with my day, I start to lose myself.
I get depressed.
I think, what if this isn’t what I’m supposed to do? What if I’m not good enough? What if this shit-shoveling I manage to do on a semi-daily basis is a waste of time?
It’s not. I know it’s not. At least, the lizard part of my brain knows it’s not. I always come around.
Sometimes it’s harder than others.
Today. Today, it’s hard.
Do me a favor and write a few awesome words. Throw me some wordsmith karma.