It always seems impossible until it’s done.
So a while ago, I finished Origins, and I received some excellent feedback on the manuscript from a Beta reader I’ve been looking forward to reading my story. I’ve worked on it, but now I’m in the process of submissions for this manuscript. Which includes a lot of waiting — the hardest part for me. I am not the most patient person, but I am learning how to be.
Beyond the pain of waiting is the pain of feeling like you’ll never succeed. I realized as I checked my email for the millionth time in a single day, that I was feeding into the wolf of insecurity. I could focus on what might happen, or I could turn my energies into the arts of creation. Whether that be through jewelry making or writing or what. It is hard because I am my own worst enemy. I tell myself that I am not good enough and I’ll never succeed and get what I dreamed.
I AM good enough. I need to stop feeding the wolf of insecurity and feeding a different wolf. So whenever I’ve found myself riddled with doubt, I’ve focused on a new story, new world idea. I get two weeks off from work, so I’m going to spend that time researching all submission avenues now that I have successfully written my synopsis over the weekend as well as spending time world building.
I have a tablet I got last Christmas, and I’m going to use that to draw out my maps and flesh out this new world. I’m excited!
Oh and I’ll probably play copious amounts of WoW. It will, however, be a good time for my brain to recharge and formulate new words and new worlds.
I don’t have much this week! Life’s been pretty quiet other than getting ready for Christmas, buying Christmas gifts, ordering chainmaille (which I still need to do) for Christmas gifts and playing with kitties.
What else can I say is going on? Not much other than I’m that crazy person that’s gotten back on the ‘watch what you eat’ train in the middle of the MOST delicious month of the year. I’m an insane person, I know.
Nothing new to report on the novel front. I’m still figuring things out and have one more person reading the book. The very same person who’s read each iteration from terrible to the final, finished product. Not to say the final is perfect — far from, but at this point, I think it’s as perfect as it can be without getting more eyes on it.
I’m terrified. I’m excited.
So here’s a cat picture, because my life revolves around cats.
Is it true? Could I be done? I am not sure. I finished the latest book rewrite/edits based on beta feedback, and I feel like the story is more solid. It feels weird to be ‘done’ and not stressing about finding time to write. I’ve got other project ideas, but nothing is grabbing me at the moment. I have given the latest revision to a few folks to read, and I’m curious what the response will be this time. In part, I’m studiously ignoring what must happen next: querying, deciding whether or not I want to try for an agent, or what. The industry changes rapidly, and that gets scary to think about. So I sit with my head in the sand, wondering if I’m going to convince myself the book isn’t worthy to avoid putting it out there for others to see.
I have a few other ideas, though, and I swore I’d know what project I wanted to pick up next after the rush of Thanksgiving… but I find myself dithering. On the one hand, I want a change of pace. I want to explore a different story with different characters and possibly a lighter side. I don’t know if I can pull off humor, but I’d like to try. On the other hand, I want to explore what happens to Cimin and the others as they traverse the next leg of their adventure.
The point is, no matter what happens next, I have finished what I set out to do. I persevered and didn’t quit when it felt like it was never going to get better. I still feel like I’m peddling horse manure, but I’m reassured that that’s not the case.
It’s time to jump off the comfort train of rewriting a book and see how it fares in the large, wild world of the unknown.
Damn, that scares the hell out of me.
On my best day, I’m not the best blogger. On my worst day, I’m pretty terrible. I struggle with finding time to write, and I feel an ever-increasing pressure to perform to impossibly perfect standards that no human should ever have to hold themselves up to.
Full-time job? NO EXCUSE. Moving? EVEN LESS OF AN EXCUSE.
So instead of a writing post, I’m going to wax (not) poetic about moving, and the stress of moving, because why not?
Which is how I find myself staring at a stack of boxes — innocuous, you’d think, I swear — that seems to be the end of me. I was on a good roll unpacking. I had built a mountain of boxes into a strange, modern art-esque jumble on my front porch.
This picture came from the pyramid of tightly packed, perfectly taped boxes that were stacked in front of my dresser. But see, the cats would play on them every… fucking… morning… like they were WWII soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy in the glossy, digital textures of my husband’s war games. They would launch themselves at the flapping tape and rake their claws into the soft surface of box flaps.
At 5 am? THAT IS NOT A TIME, CATS. But to them, it is. It is time to scale the great pyramid and conquer it with needle-sharp precision. So the first thing I did after returning home from my trip was to take down the cats own personal Normandy.
I’ve been home five days. That’s a nice accomplishment for being home for five days. Except in my mind, I need to have done more. Mostly because I am freaking out about how close Thanksgiving looms and how I am not at all remotely ready for guests. So there’s a giant pile of boxes — now that the cats have had their personal attack zone removed, they’re trying to tell me that they’re sweet and innocent and only want snuggles at night in order to take out my motivation to finish the unpacking — in the middle of my entryway.
Last night I came home ready to rumble.
Sat on the couch to finish an episode of Homicide Hunter and found myself surrounded by cats and a husband.
The cats are in collusion with the husband to keep us from working — or that’s the insanity I tell myself to make myself feel better for doing nothing.
Once I get the giant pile removed (read: unpacked), then that’s the last really BIG pile. There are other boxes… but… I can safely ignore those… I need to get other things ready for Thanksgiving.
Have I mentioned how much I hate moving? I HATE IT WITH A PASSION.
I am never moving again.
Whatever insanity lead to this moment, I will remind myself should I ever think it again.
Oh, to end, here’s a picture of those sweet angels that make my life hard (and so much more awesome):
Those little Santa penguins are so awesome, as a side-note. Got them at Buc-ee’s when I was in Texas. Anyway, I think I’ve rambled enough. This post has nothing to do with writing or coffee or anything else. I’m shamelessly using it to vent about moving and unpacking.
(And because I’ve been told I need to have an online presence and I suck at blogging. So everyone gets shitty posts about packing and unpacking and all that. This is what my life is like these days. XD XD)
I liked Benjamin Franklin’s quote that I used for the featured image of this post because it speaks to the safety of security. How distrust and caution can lead to the feeling of security and protection. It’s true, too, that exercising caution can prevent injuries.
Financially, risk often outweighs the potential reward. I don’t risk my money on a large purchase unless I know I won’t end up in the poor house because of it. How does it factor into creativity? Security speaks to me both analytically as a software engineer building applications and creatively as an artist crafting my books. Am I writing too “safely”? Am I building a “safe” world that has little personal risk for me of “doing it wrong”? When I’m making jewelry, am I trying new things or do I tend to stay in the safe “kits” that don’t let me explore my creativity?
Judgment is the most difficult feeling to overcome unless it’s validation and acclaim. Being told what we did wrong hurts on so many levels, especially when paired with the subjective creative material. To make inroads towards the heart’s desire, we must take personal risk. Professionally, I know what that means, what success looks like, and what the way towards goal achievement is patterned as.
In writing, I don’t know what success looks like beyond “get published” and “make some money”. How do I get there? What kinds of risks are okay to take? Will I fail? Will I succeed? I am plagued with the fear of moving too slow as well as moving too fast. If I look too far beyond the finish line, I find I get blinded by the future promises of what-if. What if I make it? What if I become a successful author? What if I sell books? Excitement for such a future can easily boil into your bones and drive you forward with a fevered frenzy of self-importance. Of course, I will sell books. I will be amazing. I will get a movie deal, and everyone will love my book.
In the whirlwind of emotional excitement, the realistic voice often whispers in the ear. “But wait…” it begins, reminding you that such a far leap ahead when you’ve not finished is not only folly but unrealistic. As a first-time author, the chances of me getting stars over my head is very, very, very slim. Maybe I’ll have one or two readers like my book should I finally get it written and published. Maybe I’ll even get a handful. Or maybe I’ll have a few handfuls of readers, but the glittering glitz of immediate success is like chasing gold in a cold stream full of rocks and mud. Elusive and deadly.
Calmed down from my phases of excitement in how to market, sell, and brand a book I’ve not finished yet, I realize I’ve daydreamed away the line I was standing at. Lost, I fear I’ll ever finish. I fear I’ll ever make it to publication. I self-doubt and second-guess every decision.
Do I play it safe?
Creativity falls like leaves in the changing seasons: each one is different. The majority will be the same colors as the next leaf, drawn in shades of bronze and gold and muted neutrals with dried crisp veins of brown through papery crusts of what was once living. Every so often, one will fall in brilliant colors. Bright, blood red. Golden, frail yellow. Curled in intricate patterns. They stand out because they are different. They are celebrated because of their willingness to take a risk at the very edge of their leafy existence.
I want to be the bright leaf. The strangely shaped leaf. I want to take chances in my writing and forge through the forest of words on a pathway built out of my own, rough-hewn letter strung together in rickety frameworks of daring adventures. I want to squeeze out the best and worst emotion.
To do that, I need to take the risk. I need to turn away from distrust of the world and the outcomes of my decisions and scorn the caution that tells me to be careful.
Don’t do that; you might offend.
Don’t make that choice; it won’t be well received!
Are you sure you want to teaser something that isn’t finished?
Are you sure you want to write that book? It would be easier not to.
Are you sure you want to open yourself up to the world through a blog? You have nothing to say!
Security isn’t just in standing far enough back from the edge, so you don’t fall off. Security can come from daring to make the leap and fall into the abyss with no easily apparent safety net.
So I guess, I jump. I keep writing. I hope that I don’t look so far head that I lose track of the here-and-now, but I hope that when the time comes, I’ll know what to do next.