i’m home and i’m writing all day, by myself in the crib, like what are humans? i’m rewriting and editing this novel i’ve been working on for almost four years.
maybe even longer, give or take some periods of inactivity. life has thrown me some wicked curve balls, like hit, knocked into the stands, only to be deemed foul type of shit.
i can’t be any more specific just yet. let’s just say i have mad time on my hands now.
but i’ve got a book contract. a finalized version of this novel, complete with edits from my editor/publisher, is due at the end of this summer. so that’s something right? none of this feels real tho. i feel like i’m working hard and not moving fast enough.
i’m trying to get myself on a schedule. i’m trying to make it feel make or break because it is. why is it so hard for me to feel the burn? like right now, this book contract is all i have. it’s the only concrete connection to the real world that my personal writing, my almost artistry has to the world of functioning adults. can i finish this work?
— besides autostraddle, which is why i’m forever taking time to write good shit for my autofam —
the framework of the novel is complete and i’ve been told by some people, trusted authors, that it could be published right now. but my editor and i think it needs some extra layers, some real life complicated depth, and all my ideas for how to do that, all the things i’d feel wracked without adding are in alignment with what the publisher wants. so it’s all good right?
maybe. i feel like i’m writing in circles, in the dark, and what is the fucking point anyway?
isn’t someone like me supposed to drown?
i feel like everything i write is shit. then i have these moments where everything i write feels like gold and rainbows and i just wanna print it out and run around the block screaming in the hood READ ME MOFOS.
what is this wave? what is this wave when you’re all alone? no wonder so many writers drink and pop pills and smoke like mad because this is maddening.
i have to get this done. i don’t know how people write things, write books, get things finished. i’ve seen it so why am i still writing this one novel? i have friends that turn out a book a year or a book every other year and they make their lives as writers. they speak and write and read and tour and that’s the life i want. with some time to make movies too.
i used to dream so hard and so big. i used to believe that anything was possible but i just don’t know. life is cruel and hard and weird.
i only feel powerful on the mountain.
but i was spilling these guts out to some friends. specifically to vanessa martir and angelique imani. they were kind enough to listen to my self-deprecating, embarrassingly dark feelings of pointlessness and angie was just like:
put those feelings on your blog and get them out of your soul and then go work on your shit.
at this moment, angie is at VONA and so is vanessa, they’re worshipping at the altar.
so i’m just going to listen to them and to my girl and push forward, push past all my doubt and do this thing.
i can haz a book published?
yes, yes i can haz that.