I never realized how stuck I’d gotten after writing that story that just failed. I’ve started and not finished three stories in the last week. Not finished. I usually finish shorts in one sitting. It’s the novels I poke at (and I’m poking, I’m poking. Gotta get the MG one done soon, seriously). I got stuck because I’m afraid that every word is more fail.
Fuck it. Seriously. So I failed. That story really doesn’t work at all and nothing will save it (maybe the setting, the setting might, the setting is good.) I have to get over that. Move past it. It’s so easy to dwell on what doesn’t work, what feels or reads wrong. I think my academic side lets me down here, because I’ve been trained to pick things apart. It’s time to get back up. The mini self-inflicted rollercoaster of “I suck!” and “I might not suck!” annoys me. It’s stupid and it is stopping my writing.
In 11 minutes I turn 29. I hope that someday I’ll look back at my 20s as the years it really started. Addicts have their sobriety dates, I guess writers have their “got serious” dates. Mine is Feb 4th 2009. I’ve got a year left of my 20s. I want to make it a good one, one where I did everything in my power to reach my goals. For my birthday I wrote myself a check and dated it Feb 4th, 2020. I won’t say the amount, but it is fairly ambitious, at least I hope. As I enter the final year of this decade of life, I want to know that I didn’t let the little things get me down. And that when they did, I got back up.
Now, I should go practice what I preach and finish some damn stories. Because no one is going to buy stuff I haven’t written and submitted.