Feeling Down and Out

The last couple of weeks, I've been staring at my manuscripts and wondering why the hell I'm bothering to be a writer. Who cares about what some insignificant hack in the cold Canadian frontier is writing? All of the best of my work is behind me. I might as well sell shoes at Aldo's.

I go through this every time I start editing a piece, especially something that I've written a long time ago. I went through it with Road to Hell and Tranquility's Blaze. Now, I'm going through it with Tranquility's Grief. This edit is turning into a rewrite, since the early parts were written over a year ago and, really, aren't up to par anymore. So, it's hard reading something old and trying to fix it.

I took the weekend off writing, which really helped a lot. I gave myself permission to not write and I didn't. I played video games, read Rebecca M. Senese's novella, cleaned the house, played Descent with the kids, fed the cats canned food instead of kibble, cooked a cornish hen…basically, nothing big. And it was glorious.

I joke a lot about being lazy, especially at my part-time job. "I only work 21 hours a week" is the most common phrase I utter there whenever I'm asked to work extra. They laugh, I laugh, and it's all good. But, the fact of the matter is that I am a workaholic. I have to be really careful, or else I'll end up pulling 100+ hour weeks and not even notice. I've done this at nearly every job I've worked at. I'm happy when I'm working.

And I'm really happy when I'm writing. However, like all workaholics, eventually the brain shuts down. There is no more autopilot. And the "I hate my writing" is usually what I get before the crash.

Last night was my first day back at writing. I wrote another chapter of "Sisip Becomes a Shapeshifter" (working title), and this morning I rewrote Tranquility's Grief Ch 1, Sc 1 and fully edited it.

I'm not ruling out the shoe sales as a possible career choice. I'm just saying that I might keep this writing gig after all…