After six months, I’m finally looking at the novel I wrote for NaNoWriMo. I’ll be completely honest when I say…it sucks…for the most part. I still like the idea and it seems to have its moments BUT it’s all over the place. It changes demographic about half way through and too many new things emerge that were not thought out in the beginning of the process. (Random “OMG, this is a great addition” moments).
I’ll continue to be honest in saying that I have not forced myself to sit down and read it from start to finish. Much more of a perusing effort. If I can’t force myself to read it…no one else will WANT to. Period.
This should be really discouraging to me. But if this blog and it’s readers have taught me anything – it’s this: everything is inspiration and my voice can be appreciated by people. In realizing these two things…I’ve come to terms with a couple of my own little worries.
- I have tried writing what I think people will want to read.
- I refuse to believe that people will appreciate anything other than a rant from me.
- I gauge my worth as a writer by how many people (non-friends) appreciate my work enough to comment/like.
- I don’t value myself as a writer and really just view this blog as a hobby now instead of what it was meant to be – a window into my journey and growth as an aspiring published writer.
- I’m so scared of myself and the rejection I’m convinced I will face when I actually try that I self-sabotage and instead pretend that my writing is not extremely important to me.
- I’m scared that the muse will never kiss me.
- If I can’t put out something worthwhile…I’m a fucking failure. I’m just not good at anything else. Seriously. Writing is my one and only chance.
- I hate the number 7 so I just hit enter. This one is not a worry of mine. But…it kinda is. Okay, whatever.
Yes, that’s a whole lot of emo. I’m a writer…what the fuck do you expect? I’ve got more useless verbal vomits than a bulimic and more scars than a burn unit. It’s all in my head and I am my own worst enemy in this. I know that.
I’m no closer than I was a year ago to being published, recognized, appreciated as an artist. And I haven’t been doing it my way. Not in terms of this novel. So, really…the question I’m asking myself as I blast FUN. is this…what the fuck have I got to lose?
You cant publish nothing.
Now, it’s time to start something.
Go big or go home, right?