Picking Up the Pieces

With my publisher shutting down, it’s far too easy to return to my lax method of sitting on my ass and saying, “Well, I can start tomorrow,” or, “I can start really dissecting that part of the story NEXT week,” and that simply won’t fly.

As sad as it might be, I think that part of me wanted so badly to be published, had been leaning toward it for so long, that once I did, combined with the negative experience I had, I allowed myself to relax. I relaxed rather than bothering to build better writing schedules and practices.

Whatever. There are a thousand excuses. I can justify just about anything, and though there is plenty of truth to what I just wrote, it’s all a shield to hide behind. It’s not about how many excuses I can come up with (the answer is: infinity), but about how much I actually write.

So, now that my publisher is essentially defunct, I need to work all the harder to get out there again, to be reborn as a writer…and to stop with the excuses. I need to pick up the pieces of a sad, deflated, excuse-riddled writing life (I wouldn’t deign to call it a “career” at this point), and form it into something I am utterly capable of.

Oh, and terrified of, too. But that’s a story for another day.