I want to quit.
Lately, I hate myself. I hate who I am. I hate what I do. I hate my personality. I hate my feelings. I hate everything about me. I feel like a failure, and I want to quit. Everything.
I thought about deleting this blog. I thought about moving all my novels and stories into the trash and deleting them forever. Deleting myself.
I’m even a failure at failing. I think about giving up on writing because I don’t feel like I need any more rejection in my life and what do I do? I write about it. Maybe I just need to give up on trying to be successful at writing in any way that would acknowledge me as a “real” writer and move on. I certainly don’t need any more trolls on Twitter questioning the fact that I’m a “writer” when I don’t write (as they see it), never considering the fact that pen names exist. And oh, I can’t possibly be a writer if I have a typo anywhere. Because being writer somehow makes you super-human and incapable of errors. Writers, after all, are never in need of those people called editors. We know it all. Isn’t that right?
I’m tired of the advice from writers and non-writers about how I should be writing more and not doing other things. And nothing is worse than the non-writers who are so sure they could write a book if they wanted to and feel the need to give me their little pearls of wisdom. This isn’t my first book. Every time I’ve tried to write in a way that isn’t part of my personal process, I’ve failed. I realize these people are all trying to help, but I still grow weary of hearing it all.
I’m paralyzed by the horrible fear that comes when I think about sharing anything I’ve written because I’m absolutely positive that it’s all shit. I’m shit.
When I think about finishing this book and querying agents, the joy is immediately sucked dry from my body. Working with a small press was a soul-crushing disappointment that left me feeling used and stupid. Those are the options, though, if I want to be a “real” writer.
I’m very close to finishing this book, but at this point, I just don’t care if I ever do.
I’ve, once again, moved into the shadows and I don’t really feel any desire to try to step out into the light. My heart is broken. My spirits are broken. I am broken. Most of all, I feel like I deserve to be a broken heap of nothing who will sit and wait until the moment I break down into fine dust and blow away.
I want to quit. But here I am–writing. And I’m sure, one day, bits of light will seep into my heart, get it pumping in an exciting rhythm again that gives me the heart to get up and keep trying.
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