How to spin a silk cocoon around pupating words.

For a long time now I’ve been telling people around me how much I hate writing. How I’d rather do anything else, and that the only good feeling I get from writing is when I’m done with a project.

I’ve said it so many times that I have ended up believing it. Until I figured, since I don’t actually give a shit about what I’m writing any more, who cares if I just churn out some commercial crap. Let’s have hawt guys and girls who can. . .I dunno, do kung fu or something. Let’s have everything spelled out, linear, let’s not play with language or write anything that doesn’t conform to the moral majority. It’s not like I care any more.

So I set to work on that book. And dear god it was like peeling off the skin on my fingers with a potato-peeler and then salting the raw flesh.

So, like, not all that much fun.

I hated every second of it, but I carried on grimly, because I’d convinced myself that this would be the only way I ever sell another book. And occasionally, I wrote pieces I liked. And those little pieces made me happy. Happy enough to continue peeling my fingers.

Then I figured, fuck this shit. I’m not going to sell another book. I’m not going to do this stupid crap any more. So I bought a sewing machine. And I stopped working on that fucking book. And I’m much happier. I went back to play with/revise the book no-one wants. And it made me happy. And now I’m playing with/revising the other book no-one wants, and that’s making me happy too.

Dunno what that says about me other than selling my book was a fluke, and I should stop worrying about publishing and just do my thing that makes me happy.

And, yanno, learn to sew.

So. . .yeah. That was a fun post.

(And yes, I do know the unwritten rule of publishing – especially if you write YA – is be fucking Miss Mary Sunshine ALL THE TIME or no-one will ever want to work with you but as you can see, I don’t feel particularly inclined to give a shit any more.)

and

(Also, yes, I’ve been in a very black place for the last year or so. I’ve lost all faith in my work, and in myself as a writer. I should shut up and suck it up, I know. But today’s different. Today I’m not sad because I suck. Today I’m sad because I let the world convince me I suck.

Hence this post.)