"Didst thou act the tragedienne?"
Dec. 9th, 2003 02:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeWritten earlier in the evening and transcribed:
I have doubts.
Recent events have caused me to question just what the hell I'm doing, really, and I'm tired. Am I getting above myself? Am I becoming as arrogant as I accuse others of being... despite that I've taken care not to accuse specific people because I can't pinpoint the matter that concerns me close enough to any one person. Am I placing too much store in how long I have been doing this, how many times/places I've been published, my degrees (or lack of them, depending on the field), the sheer amount of crap?
Yeah, I'm having a crisis of faith.
I never used to show my writing to anyone, did you know? Not for ten years. Never. I had a hard drive full of stories (even back then I had a hard drive, I grew up around computers) and they never saw the light of day. I had notebooks full of them, too, and they never saw the light of day either. Daylight, moonlight, Israelite, fanny by the gaslight. It wasn't until comparatively recently, five or six years ago that I started revealing them to public scrutiny and scorn. It wasn't until three years ago that I started putting up a lot of fiction. Hell, I still only put up about 1/2 of the stuff I write. And now I wonder if I should just go back to that, keep everything quiet again. Get out of all this writing community bullshit and just go back into seclusion. Leave everyone in all the communities to their bickering and their ripping each other to shreds, their mutual masturbation praises, a circle-jerk of congradulations.
Maybe I just don't get it. Maybe I'm not understanding because I'm not as qualified as some, as old as others, I don't know all the stats of everyone I've pissed off lately. I seem to have more of a talent for that than for writing... maybe I should become a professional loudmouth misanthrope. Annoyances alienated, enemies enraged, at your service, satisfaction guaranteed and accept no substitutions. For a modest fee, of course. I certainly don't seem to be having much luck doing anything but aggravating people lately.
I don't know what to do anymore. I've addressed... hell. Fuck my concerns, anyway, what the hell do I know about anything?
Maybe I will... I can't stop writing, I know that. If I stop writing, it's like when the shark stops swimming, and I die. Not all at once, mind you. First I get cranky, agitated, irritable. I pace, I fret, I eat too much. I go into mood swings, manic and frantic and then listless and lethargic. I runa round the house reorganizing everything and then I leave it all scattered and out as I run out of steam and just lie there. I feel as though I could do anything, as though I'm worth nothing and then... well, then comes the cutting. I haven't cut in almost three years, did you know?
I should probably see a shrink. This probably qualifies as OCD. Screw that.
But I still don't know what to do. I feel inferior, incompetent, clumsy and oafish. I feel as though I've stumbled into the buffet table in front of the entire Parliament of England, popping right out of my dress and into the vichysoisse.
And now...
I feel better. Partially being told that I am good, and I am beautiful, and I am intelligent, and I am talented and worth something. And partially also talking it through, talking it out. I'm not quite up to the level of calm and quietude that I was this morning, but I feel better.
And so good night unto you all... I'm for bed. Hat, I'm very sorry I never logged back on... all that *points up* shit came up and so I curled up with a blanket and a boyfriend and lost myself in the amusement that is L&O: SVU for a while. And we talked for a bit.
Tomorrow there will be more walkies, some pushups and situps that I never got around to today because I was up so much later than I should have been, and back to my new weekly routine. It's still solidifying, but it's going well. I got my column written, got some stories worked on. Would have been more up but FicPress.com decided to swallow its own head again. Damn site.
And so it goes...
I have doubts.
Recent events have caused me to question just what the hell I'm doing, really, and I'm tired. Am I getting above myself? Am I becoming as arrogant as I accuse others of being... despite that I've taken care not to accuse specific people because I can't pinpoint the matter that concerns me close enough to any one person. Am I placing too much store in how long I have been doing this, how many times/places I've been published, my degrees (or lack of them, depending on the field), the sheer amount of crap?
Yeah, I'm having a crisis of faith.
I never used to show my writing to anyone, did you know? Not for ten years. Never. I had a hard drive full of stories (even back then I had a hard drive, I grew up around computers) and they never saw the light of day. I had notebooks full of them, too, and they never saw the light of day either. Daylight, moonlight, Israelite, fanny by the gaslight. It wasn't until comparatively recently, five or six years ago that I started revealing them to public scrutiny and scorn. It wasn't until three years ago that I started putting up a lot of fiction. Hell, I still only put up about 1/2 of the stuff I write. And now I wonder if I should just go back to that, keep everything quiet again. Get out of all this writing community bullshit and just go back into seclusion. Leave everyone in all the communities to their bickering and their ripping each other to shreds, their mutual masturbation praises, a circle-jerk of congradulations.
Maybe I just don't get it. Maybe I'm not understanding because I'm not as qualified as some, as old as others, I don't know all the stats of everyone I've pissed off lately. I seem to have more of a talent for that than for writing... maybe I should become a professional loudmouth misanthrope. Annoyances alienated, enemies enraged, at your service, satisfaction guaranteed and accept no substitutions. For a modest fee, of course. I certainly don't seem to be having much luck doing anything but aggravating people lately.
I don't know what to do anymore. I've addressed... hell. Fuck my concerns, anyway, what the hell do I know about anything?
Maybe I will... I can't stop writing, I know that. If I stop writing, it's like when the shark stops swimming, and I die. Not all at once, mind you. First I get cranky, agitated, irritable. I pace, I fret, I eat too much. I go into mood swings, manic and frantic and then listless and lethargic. I runa round the house reorganizing everything and then I leave it all scattered and out as I run out of steam and just lie there. I feel as though I could do anything, as though I'm worth nothing and then... well, then comes the cutting. I haven't cut in almost three years, did you know?
I should probably see a shrink. This probably qualifies as OCD. Screw that.
But I still don't know what to do. I feel inferior, incompetent, clumsy and oafish. I feel as though I've stumbled into the buffet table in front of the entire Parliament of England, popping right out of my dress and into the vichysoisse.
And now...
I feel better. Partially being told that I am good, and I am beautiful, and I am intelligent, and I am talented and worth something. And partially also talking it through, talking it out. I'm not quite up to the level of calm and quietude that I was this morning, but I feel better.
And so good night unto you all... I'm for bed. Hat, I'm very sorry I never logged back on... all that *points up* shit came up and so I curled up with a blanket and a boyfriend and lost myself in the amusement that is L&O: SVU for a while. And we talked for a bit.
Tomorrow there will be more walkies, some pushups and situps that I never got around to today because I was up so much later than I should have been, and back to my new weekly routine. It's still solidifying, but it's going well. I got my column written, got some stories worked on. Would have been more up but FicPress.com decided to swallow its own head again. Damn site.
And so it goes...
