Fine Again
Aug. 11th, 2006 09:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeSomeone said some things last night that made me realize I may not have been all that clear, in fact I haven't been all that clear, about what's going on in my life now. I have no idea how many of you care or are curious, but things have been changing pretty drastically for me over the past several weeks. It's one thing to read my 'holy shit!' posts, it's another, I guess, for me to explain it. I wasn't sure it was all that necessary? Warrented. Maybe it isn't. Who knows.
The conference back in April was one thing. A very stressful thing. It was my first real attempt to get out there and market full-length novels to people. I've had off and on success with short stories, but more off than on. And so far, none of the short stories have paid me anything. Which is fine. I don't do this for the money. Or, hell, I don't do it for the recognition. If I did I'd be immensely frustrated by now. But if I want to be a writer for a living I have to be at least a little mercenary. And if I want to actually get some of these bigger stories out there I have to go sell them, right? Talk to editors. Publishers. Agents. That sort of thing.
But, god. The stress. I had a nervous breakdown shortly before I had to leave. I started crying, I didn't stop for three hours. About half an hour before I hit the ground running. The metaphorical ground, it was about half an hour's drive away from the house. The rest of the weekend I was fine. Just. Guh.
Now I have the Manuscript Marketplace.
It's a whole different way of writing. Not technically, and by technically I mean in the technical aspects. I'm stil typing things out, one word in front of the other, slowly but surely getting things done. But now I have deadlines. I have people to get things to. People who could, potentially, get these stories and these people to at least readers all around the US. Perhaps all around the world. I have to polish things up because it's an audition. It's showing my writing, which I automatically think is crap, to people who will judge it on the basis of one quick reading of one thing I've done. And on that basis they will say yes, we will market this all over the States/the world, no, we don't think you're our cup of tea. Or we don't think you're good enough.
I have to treat this as a job, now. I joked, before, about having two part time jobs, but now I really do. There's a weight there that wasn't there before. It is more than a little gratifying to realize that the weight isn't that bad, that I can deal with it. It's barely noticeable, in fact. But it's still there. This is work, now. This is livelihood and potential rent and groceries. This is deadlines, and being serious, and no more "oh well if I don't get this done I don't get this done I'll move on to something else." Authors tend to have some pretty damn relaxed schedules, but it's not that relaxed.
I have to be able to know when things are polished enough that I can send them out. That's never going to be as easy as it sounds. Is my judgment skewed? Yes. Is it skewed enough that I can't tell? I don't know. By the time I send it out I've read over everything so many times that sometimes I'm betting I can't even see the typos that might be there. Certainly I've lost all perspective on whether or not it's good. The words are familiar; they've become stale, boring. Not something I want to show anyone but I have to trust that that's at least 90% familiarity breeding contempt and that it's good enough to impress an agent or an editor.
It's a different view of my writing. A different view of myself, what I'm doing with my life. And it's a balancing act in every damn way. I have to balance being hopeful, because who the hell wouldn't be hopeful with interested notices coming your way? With being realistic. This is a chance, it's not a certainty. With being hurt and sad for my friend who isn't having the qualified success that I'm having. With wondering, once I've sent things off, what the hell is going to happen to me now? Is this a delayed rejection? Is this the beginning of something bigger? Who the hell knows? Not me.
At this point I'm running on momentum and stubbornness. Tenacity. There's an enormity to what I'm facing that is hard to explain. I always joke about wanting to be the next Stephen King. It's a whole damn other thing to realize that, yes, that's potentially not a joke anymore. Holy shit. It's bloody well terrifying. Momentum and stubbornness. And the weight of all those words piled on top of my head, all those people and all those stories, and they need to go somewhere. Better on my computer than on the walls. Yes, I did used to write on my walls.
It's time to go to work, and I really have nothing to sum this up with. There you go. Here I go. Whee, jumping. Here's hoping I can fly.
The conference back in April was one thing. A very stressful thing. It was my first real attempt to get out there and market full-length novels to people. I've had off and on success with short stories, but more off than on. And so far, none of the short stories have paid me anything. Which is fine. I don't do this for the money. Or, hell, I don't do it for the recognition. If I did I'd be immensely frustrated by now. But if I want to be a writer for a living I have to be at least a little mercenary. And if I want to actually get some of these bigger stories out there I have to go sell them, right? Talk to editors. Publishers. Agents. That sort of thing.
But, god. The stress. I had a nervous breakdown shortly before I had to leave. I started crying, I didn't stop for three hours. About half an hour before I hit the ground running. The metaphorical ground, it was about half an hour's drive away from the house. The rest of the weekend I was fine. Just. Guh.
Now I have the Manuscript Marketplace.
It's a whole different way of writing. Not technically, and by technically I mean in the technical aspects. I'm stil typing things out, one word in front of the other, slowly but surely getting things done. But now I have deadlines. I have people to get things to. People who could, potentially, get these stories and these people to at least readers all around the US. Perhaps all around the world. I have to polish things up because it's an audition. It's showing my writing, which I automatically think is crap, to people who will judge it on the basis of one quick reading of one thing I've done. And on that basis they will say yes, we will market this all over the States/the world, no, we don't think you're our cup of tea. Or we don't think you're good enough.
I have to treat this as a job, now. I joked, before, about having two part time jobs, but now I really do. There's a weight there that wasn't there before. It is more than a little gratifying to realize that the weight isn't that bad, that I can deal with it. It's barely noticeable, in fact. But it's still there. This is work, now. This is livelihood and potential rent and groceries. This is deadlines, and being serious, and no more "oh well if I don't get this done I don't get this done I'll move on to something else." Authors tend to have some pretty damn relaxed schedules, but it's not that relaxed.
I have to be able to know when things are polished enough that I can send them out. That's never going to be as easy as it sounds. Is my judgment skewed? Yes. Is it skewed enough that I can't tell? I don't know. By the time I send it out I've read over everything so many times that sometimes I'm betting I can't even see the typos that might be there. Certainly I've lost all perspective on whether or not it's good. The words are familiar; they've become stale, boring. Not something I want to show anyone but I have to trust that that's at least 90% familiarity breeding contempt and that it's good enough to impress an agent or an editor.
It's a different view of my writing. A different view of myself, what I'm doing with my life. And it's a balancing act in every damn way. I have to balance being hopeful, because who the hell wouldn't be hopeful with interested notices coming your way? With being realistic. This is a chance, it's not a certainty. With being hurt and sad for my friend who isn't having the qualified success that I'm having. With wondering, once I've sent things off, what the hell is going to happen to me now? Is this a delayed rejection? Is this the beginning of something bigger? Who the hell knows? Not me.
At this point I'm running on momentum and stubbornness. Tenacity. There's an enormity to what I'm facing that is hard to explain. I always joke about wanting to be the next Stephen King. It's a whole damn other thing to realize that, yes, that's potentially not a joke anymore. Holy shit. It's bloody well terrifying. Momentum and stubbornness. And the weight of all those words piled on top of my head, all those people and all those stories, and they need to go somewhere. Better on my computer than on the walls. Yes, I did used to write on my walls.
It's time to go to work, and I really have nothing to sum this up with. There you go. Here I go. Whee, jumping. Here's hoping I can fly.