This entry was largely inspired by my last one. Which is possibly the most depressing inspiration I've ever had.
I started writing my first book in June of 1998, late at night in a dorm room I was soon to move out of. I finished it three years later, in May of 2001, and for some reason, I thought it had a chance at getting published. Self-depreciation aside, that's a hell of a thing to look back and see. I've been trying to get published for fifteen years, been writing books for eighteen years. And that's not even counting the assload of stuff I wrote, short stories and long stories and random bits and pieces, for years before I finally started on what would actually become a book.
And in all the time since then, it feels like very little has changed. I'm still sitting here, trying my damnedest to get these ideas and stories out of my head and into actual words, and having a hell of a lot more misses than hits with that. I'm still struggling to write something that comes out worth a damn and feels like it has a chance at getting published. I'm still waiting to hear anything but "no" or silence from an agent.
Fifteen years is a long, long time to have the same problems.
I know that comparing ourselves to others in this whole writing thing does no good, and I know there's confirmation bias at work when I feel like everyone else out there is doing better than me. But it's really damn hard to not do that. I read an article recently on a blog where an author talked about how they'd started writing around five years ago, and how important it was to not give up, because now they had an agent and had sold two of their books, which were soon to be published.
And I'm sitting here thinking, "You telling me not to give up is like complaining about the phantom pains from your missing finger and the life adjustments you've had to make to account for it, while I'm sitting here with no legs and a plastic bag where my intestines used to be."
I try to make colorful metaphors when I'm angry. It's a little more productive than yelling.
I know this is all stuff I've talked about before. It's stuff I'll talk about again during the next attempt at publishing, whether that's with STARWIND or whatever comes next. (This is the part where I'd hint at things I'm working on, but I'm getting absolutely fucking nowhere with any of them, so I don't even feel like being cryptic.) That's why last week's entry was an inspiration for this one - it feels like every problem I have to talk about here, it's something I've already talked about.
Where am I going with this? I have no idea. I've thought about putting the blog on hiatus, because I'm tired of listening to my own whining. I don't think that would do any good, though. It helps to vent a little, and I do appreciate the support from y'all in the comments. But it's one thing to have the same problems for fifteen years. It's another thing to keep babbling about them for the few people willing to listen for four years straight.
As usual, I don't know what to do about any of this other than keep trying. Even if it feels like Sisyphus himself would call me a fool.
Next week: might be thoughts on the start of edits on STARWIND. Might be a hiatus announcement if the book turns out to suck. We shall see.