Bootstrap Time

I'm not going to lie. I moped for a few days. I annoyed Fernando with whining and complaining. I was a big stick in the mud, a complete drag. When you're feeling unskilled and futile, it's difficult to shake it off. Like a bad cold, it dogs you, it gets in your lungs. You end up breathing it, marinating in how useless you are.

So the first thing I did was just take a step away from the whole thing. I didn't think about my book or my characters or my chances in publishing once on Saturday. I had a nice day with Fernando instead. Went to get the car fixed (and though that ended up being an ordeal, I refused to let it ruin the day), saw a movie. Hung out at the bookstore, brought some Chinese food home. It was a nice day, and I succeeded in not thinking about my woes once.

Sunday ... I started to miss writing. I missed my story and my characters. And that's what brought me back. In the end, I'm doing this because I love it, because it's the only thing I want to do. I'm doing this because I love to experience what I read, and I'm hoping that someday something I write will affect someone in the same way. I'm doing this because telling a good story is the most fulfilling thing I've ever known, because learning more about telling good stories is an endless pursuit that doesn't fill me with futility.

Yes, there is always something I'll be able to learn about writing, and that's wonderful. It means I'll never become stagnant, it means that no matter how much I achieve, there will always be room to grow. I can't think of anything more encouraging than that.

I realized that feeling sad and discouraged is a kind of tool itself! The more I feel and the more I understand about myself, the better I'll be able to put it all into words. I felt lower than mud a few days ago, and once I stopped to think about it, I found myself describing the sensations, the thoughts. The way I felt like a stone slowly ground into sand. And then I stepped into one of my character's shoes and wrote it from her perspective. A few chapters down the line, I'll do the same for the rest.

Once I tell myself that any sadness or discouragement I feel is an asset, I'm not held down by it anymore. I learn how to write it, and then I'm free again. I'm not feeling discouraged and useless anymore; instead, I'm chomping at the bit to keep writing, always writing.

So though I'm laid up right now with a pretty bad cold, I can't stop. I just finished chapter 5, and off I go, ready to shape chapter 6. What a wonderful thing.

Down the Drain

Well, I guess I should be pleased it took this long, but I'm officially discouraged.

So discouraged that I'm having trouble putting the feeling into words accurately. I feel like I'm trying to break through a wall of concrete with nothing more than my bare hands. I've been flailing against the unmovable stone, and now I'm slowly coming to realize there's nothing I can do.

Everything seems impossible now. I've been sick and waylaid with some pretty serious real life matters, and while I was unpacking things in the new apartment, I just stopped and wondered what I was doing with my life. I wondered if it really is possible for me to publish a book. I wondered if it's even possible for me to finish my first draft. I've stared at the draft for days and nothing comes, so much so that I've become intimately familiar with the rhythms of that blinking cursor; it almost seems to taunt me. I'm too distracted.

Too discouraged.

What was I thinking? Why am I banking on the possibility of my success when I've never succeeded at anything in my life? I have no real skills, and worse, I can't seem to sustain any faith in myself and my abilities (or lack thereof).

It's the Despair Spiral. It starts with a nagging worry, and then from there it just spins out of control. I start thinking 'what am I doing?' and then the next thing I know, I'm in this quagmire of pessimistic speculation. I'm wondering if I'm any good at this. I'm wondering if I've got what it takes to see this through. I'm wondering if anything I do will make any difference at all, or if I'm just going to slog away and pound at that wall, never making any progress.

What possessed me to think that I actually could write anything, let alone make a living doing so? I mean, I knew it would be more than just reading books on how to write and editing the snot out of my own work, but staring at what I need to accomplish from this side is just daunting. I've done hardly anything so far; I haven't even finished my first draft. It's sitting anemically at 13k words.

Fernando says that I shouldn't be too hard on myself. The last two weeks have been beyond hectic, and things are only now starting to relatively even out. Relatively; as in, things are still batshit, just not as batshit as before. I can't fucking concentrate on anything! I try to slip into the world I'm building, the characters I'm getting to know, but they elude me.

Maybe I'm trying too hard. Maybe I'm too desperate and that's why I can't get anything done. But why should working hard be a detriment to this pursuit? I've been studying tirelessly, working over my writing style and process whenever I get a chance.

That could be part of the problem. The more I learn, the more I realize I have left to learn, and the act of becoming a good writer seems even more remote. Distant and unattainable.

How do you get out of the Despair Spiral once it starts? I don't know. Ask me in a few days, when I smack myself in the face for being a whiny bitch and pull myself up by the bootstraps. I know it'll happen, just right now I can't see that outcome. Right now, all I see is inevitable failure, and my own inability to change it.