mary: A picture of a woman sitting in front of a stained glass window, from Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds (Default)
[personal profile] mary
small-hours ramblethoughts about where I am as a writer behind the cut

I don't want to be the bitter fucked-up failure that I increasingly find myself to be. It's nothing new for me to get incredibly messed up in my head when someone I know does well, but I feel like that tendency in my personality is getting more and more pronounced as time goes on and it concerns me. I don't want to be so poisoned by my own regrets and disappointments that I can't be happy for the success of others.

I've been back-and-forthing in my head since finishing Candy Butchers about whether I want to write anymore, and I just don't know. On the one hand, I feel utterly worthless without it -- what's the point of me, if I'm not a writer? What possible worth as a person, what justification for continued existence, do I have if I'm not writing?

But then on the other hand... what possible worth do I have *as* a writer? I'm never going to walk into a bookstore and see one of my novels on the shelf, or walk past a remainder bin full of battered paperbacks made up of words from my head. I'm never going to feel like I can legitimately call myself an 'author', not without feeling certain that the real authors I know are sneering or smiling condescendingly inside, secure in the knowledge that they're proper authors and I'm a pathetic wannabe.

See? This whole thing is turning me horrible, and it's making me think that everyone else is horrible too. I'm self-centered with shitty self-esteem: I assume people have feelings about me, contempt or pity, when really the truth is that the real authors I know probably never even think about me or my work at all. I don't register. I'm not part of the club.

Ugh, I don't know. I just feel like at 30, with Candy Butchers publisher-less and Mixtape and Wolf House at home with a tiny publisher, it's time to stop deluding myself that this is a thing that's ever going to happen. I'm not going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly be good at this shit. Semi-decent doesn't cut it in a world of seven billion people.

I just feel really sad, because I don't know who I'm meant to be now.
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mary: A picture of a woman sitting in front of a stained glass window, from Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds (Default)
Isn't moral anarchy kind of the point?

December 2013

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