Yet Another Sign That I Truly Am a Writer
I suck. My book sucks. Why would anyone want to read this? I don’t even want to read this. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? I may as well quit now and save agents the hassle of ignoring my query.
Ever had these thoughts? That’s been the constant monologue running through my head lately. I’ve written a query letter (well really I tweaked the version I wrote a year ago) but I can’t seem to get beyond that. I haven’t even opened a document to start a synopsis. I just don’t see the point.
Then it struck me that I must really be a writer because it seems each of my friends has gone through this at some point or another. Doubted themselves, doubted their writing, doubted the point in putting themselves through all this grief.
Since moving back to the US I’ve done a lot of comparing my pre-Mexico life with my life now, and the biggest difference is I wasn’t writing or dreaming of getting published. Or at least I wasn’t doing anything about it. I sometimes wonder what the heck I did with all my time. I certainly watched a lot more television, but I was rarely on the computer outside of work and I didn’t have ANY online friends or blogs.
I know that my life has a lot more value now and I couldn’t go back to my old way of life, so my only choice is to keep plugging away. Finish the draft and get the queries out. Start the next book. Keep making contacts. And most importantly, lean on my writing friends when I need a pep talk.
I know it’s only a matter of time before I’ll be returning the favor.
Special thanks to Nadine for talking me off the ledge this week.