Not a Project for Me
I’ve grown to hate those words in the past year or so. Much like I detested all the ‘it’s not you, it’s me‘ that I got from men before I met MTM. Copouts are the same regardless of the scenery.
I almost quit writing last week. Quit the blog. Quit my current book. Quit all of it.
Maybe my underlying mood has flavored my fiction, because, on some level, I started out writing this character with the intention of killing my writing when he died. Never in my life have I encountered a bigger roller coaster ride, a thing that corkscrews into infinity. In the dark. No end in sight.
This is the best thing I’ve come across in a while. No, it isn’t. You’re talented. No, you’re not. I couldn’t put this story down. I won’t represent you, because this sentence, this one right here, isn’t well crafted enough. I just didn’t connect with this as much as I felt like I needed to, but you’re beautiful. And talented. If you submitted more of your work to the dwindling number of publications that take this kind of writing, maybe you’d get a deal. Someday. By the time you’re 80. No, your blog doesn’t count for anything. I can’t WAIT to talk with you!!!!!…not a project for me.
A lonely place, made even lonelier by this summing up: Life is crazy. CRAZY.
I’m not writing this post to hear platitudes. How many times successful authors submitted works before they got published. How many books they wrote before one hit. How I should just publish my stuff myself and move on. In the thick of it, when you’re alone, none of that matters. You just want to curl up into a ball. To spit it right back: This just isn’t a project for me.
And give up.
I think my editor stopped me. She told me she admired my backbone.
And, I remembered that strong backbones won’t necessarily bend into a ball.
Thank you, SP.