I have eleven short stories coming out in seven anthologies in the next seven months. I’ve had a run of sales recently-- and two more today. It’s really nice to be selling steadily, if a little overwhelming. My backlog, which usually has at least six or seven short stories languishing without a home, is currently empty. Everything is either sold or under consideration (in addition to the eleven stories sold, I have another twelve making the rounds). I’m not bragging. Seeing that empty file folder scares me. A lot.
I’m starting to think the only thing worse than rejection is acceptance. I feel like I need to be pushing myself harder, creating bigger challenges, writing more, more, MORE. Rejection has a way of keeping me humble and critical of my writing. Success just freaks me out. What is wrong with these editors that they want my stuff?
Yeah, that’s the way I think. Please don’t suggest therapy, I’m afraid it wouldn’t help. I need to ride the wave while I can, because it’s only a matter of time before the tide turns and I’m lamenting my inability to sell anything to anyone.
In the meantime, I think I’m going to go write something.
Mary Anne wrote this, but it’s exactly how I feel right now:
Periodically I have conversations which go like this:
“So what do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Gosh, I always wanted to be a writer. But I wouldn’t have the discipline to actually write anything. How do you do it?”
“I don’t know. I just go to the cafe, open up my laptop, and start writing.”
And sometimes it’s like that. It is. But then there are the weeks like this week, where every single morning I’ve woken up planning to write, and I get through every day without writing anything at all. Except in this journal, I suppose, which doesn’t count. I don’t even manage to open the file I’m supposed to be working on.
I go through my day, doing errands, filing things, getting more and more irritated with myself, feeling an irrational anxiety build that makes it even more difficult to open up the file and start writing. A sense of ‘after all this build-up, I’d better write something really good.’ Which is ridiculous. And yet here I am, not writing. Argh.
Yes, argh.
Of course, the irony here is that I can’t even write about my frustration with my lack of writing-- I have to borrow someone else’s words.
I’m adjusting to some schedule changes that seem to have completely thrown me off course. I’ll get settled into a new routine and things will turn around soon, they always do. Until then, what Mary Anne said.
An idea for a story came to me last night as I was trying to fall asleep. That’s not unusual, really. I used to make up stories when I was a kid and couldn’t sleep. Each night I’d add to the story, telling it to myself in my head until I was ready to start a new story. All those sleepless nights as a child made me a writer, I think.
So, I had a story idea last night and it seemed like a good idea at 1 a.m. The true test of whether a story is worth writing is if I wake up thinking about it, too. This morning, I did. I love it when that happens. I’ve written about five pages so far and I could probably finish it tonight (I’m figuring it’ll be around 4,000 words), but I won’t. I’m going to linger over this one for a few days. Why? Because I’m excited about it.
I love this feeling of anticipation, knowing what I’m going to write and then watching it magically unfold in front of me. The thing non-writers don’t understand is how a story can take on a life of it’s own, becoming something entirely different from what the writer originally imagined. When the writing takes over, becomes a living, breathing, thinking thing, all I can do is sit here and let the words pour out. It’s the closest thing to real magic I’ve ever experienced.
I’m excited about this story because it’s different from other things I’ve written, but I also know what I’m writing is good. That doesn’t always happen, so I try to enjoy the feeling for as long as it lasts. It doesn’t really seem to matter how I feel about a particular piece of work-- stories I haven’t been particularly happy with have sold quicker than stories that made my heart ache for having written them. There is, I think, a little bit of my soul in everything I write-- but some stories take more out of me than others. Or perhaps I give more of myself to some stories than others, hmm?
Much like life, the more I put into what I’m writing, the more I seem to get out of it. It’s something to remember when the excitement fades and everything I’m writing feels like work.
When I’m unhappy and feeling hopeless about my writing (including the freaking essay I’ve been sweating for class), it helps to remind myself that at least a few editors think I can write. Here are some of the books in which my writing will be appearing in the coming months:
 May Cleis Press |
 July Berkley Trade |
 July Alyson |
 July Bella Books |
It’s a start…
I don’t like math, but I recognize the need for it. I can do the kind of basic math necessary to get through life and keep the bills paid. I can do simple math problems in my head and I’m even pretty good at word problems. Statistics makes sense to me and I can muddle my way through elementary algebra and simple geometry, but other than that, I’m lost. Trigonometry and Calculus are beyond my comprehension. It’s as if there is a blank spot on my brain where those math skills should be and no amount of studying will ever fill the void. I realize I will never really need to know that kind of higher math, but deep down it still bugs me that I can’t do it.
Writing is like that. I get so incredibly frustrated because I feel like I’m grasping for something that is just beyond my reach. I have the basic skills, I can craft a well-written paragraph, essay, short story. I can put eighty thousand words together in some semblance of a plot and call it a novel. I can write. I know I can. I’m just not good enough. There is this blank space, this void that can’t be filled, this need to write better that is never satisfied. I think it’s in me, I can feel it in me, but it’s an itch I can’t seem to scratch.
When I look back over everything I’ve written, I can see how my writing has improved. At the time, in the moment, all I could see were the words in front of me and they were crap. A little time, a little distance, a whole lot more words written and I can see that what I wrote in 1998 is better than what I wrote in 1994 but not so good as what I wrote in 2002. I know I’m a better writer than I was a decade ago and I can only hope I’ll be a better writer a decade from now. The problem is, there is a carrot dangling in front of me I can never quite reach no matter how hard I try. It’s there, I see it, can practically taste it, but I can’t reach it. My writing is never good enough.
I have always wanted to be a writer. Since I was a very young child, I have known this is what I wanted to do. I’ve been told many, many times how lucky I am to recognize my passion, my calling, my gift. How lucky I am to know what it is I want to be when I grow up. What no one seems to realize is that wanting and being are two entirely different things. I can call myself a writer all I like, but until the void is filled, until I catch the carrot, until I am good enough to please myself for more than a few fleeting moments, I’m just a person who has spent thirty years trying to be something I’m not.
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