I wasn't doing so badly on the regular blogging. Kinda. Whatevs.
So. I'm going through this weird kinda what do I really want to do with my life phase. Those who really know me are like...Phase? Is that what the kids are calling it these days? WTF? Yeah, I got great friends. Actually, I do. And my hubby is lumped in there too.
Back to this phase... I'm going on my seventh or eighth year of this phase. Not. Even. Kidding. But wait. I'm making it sound so negative and it really isn't. I have learned a lot about myself during this phasic (new word, you're welcome...hold on sec. I looked it up and it is a word. Fuck. I'd seem way smarter if I deleted this part.) period. What are some of the things I've learned?
Well. For one, writing is fucking hard. Not that I thought it would be easy. But getting my ass in that chair and pounding on the keyboard every single day is a struggle for me. And I'm not sold on its worth. You see, I am petrified. Of failure. Of success. Of not producing enough. Of my 75-year-old Catholic uncle finding out I write about open door sex. Of not connecting with other writers. Yeah, every other writer I read about has a hundred (yes, I'm exaggerating) close fellow-writer-friends. And me? Choke. The one loverly writer-friend I have is leaps and bounds ahead of me, which makes me extremely happy for her (for real), but it makes it difficult to be on the same page. She'll totally read anything I send her, I just gotta do it. And she'd give me advice, if I asked. And she'd commiserate if I needed her to. But it feels–to me–like I'm the only that would benefit and the last thing I want is for her to feel that too. So I just keep my distance.
That brings me to my next rant... How do you connect (connect, connect, not email received connect) with someone online? No fucking clue. I've tried and failed. Poor me. Not really. I'll live and it doesn't prevent me writing. Other stuff does that. And it's all in my head. You'd think that'd be great for a writer. Um, not so much, no.
I write all this pap here, and I think about it (by it, I mean writing) constantly. I discuss it with my husband (who patiently listens and tells me I should persevere). And I still want to be a fucking writer. What the hell is wrong with me? The idea of not writing hurts my heart. Now if the idea of not finishing did the same I might be on to something.
Then I go down the rabbit hole. If I'm not pushed, inspired, just gotta do it or I'll die, to write then maybe I'm just not meant to be a writer. Not a writer that finishes stuff, and queries it, and publishes it, anyway. You'd laugh (maybe cry) if you saw my half finished renos. Ha. It's a theme. And I didn't even know what the theme was until I had finished, or looked back. You know what I mean.
I wrote all this just to get to my post topic... I was thinking of NaNoWrimo-ing. I've got a few hours to decide.
I'm attempting to become published. Sometimes, I