I’m not asking for a friend, obviously.
If you don’t wanna read my whining this is the moment to move on to another blog, unfollow me, grab some ice cream, go to sleep.
I just feel like shit and wanted to talk with someone about it. Since no one deserves to put up with my crap, I decided to come to the blog: after all, the reader has no responsibility to comfort me or to reply. See? This is better than talking or chatting. This is uncompromising. This is as lonely as my writing always is.
I guess writing is lonely for everyone else. And I don’t even know why that loneliness bothers me at all.
No, I’m lying, I know what bothers me.
Here’s a list:
- I’m disappointed, angry, and sad because my YA sci-fi is still in edits. It’s been over a year, and that book still isn’t ready. I work and work and work, and yet there are still corrections to be made. A few inconsistencies remain in the final three chapters. When THE FUCK will I get it right? Why does this take so long? Will my efforts amount to anything? What do I want? (Well, if I’m honest, I’d like to sell that book for enough money to quit my day job. Ambitious af, I know. Delusional? Who knows. But it’s not about the money; it’s about the freedom to write.)
- My own ambition annoys me. I wish I were financially independent so that writing could be the thing I do when I feel like doing anything other than napping, watching movies, or traveling. I wish I were financially independent so that this book, and my many others, could be finished at all. Instead, here I am, stealing time at work to vent—so that I can work after posting this because I guess by then I’ll feel less like crying over the keyboard. Deep inside, I’m angry at myself: why am I not wealthy enough to stop working a day job? Through my writing or else, I need to break free from the corporate wheel, man.
- All the aforementioned reasons/complaints make me feel like a spoiled brat. It must be the consequence of a year editing the same book. I’ve written other things on the side, but this book needs to be ready. Please. I really just need to finish editing this book.
- And that’s it, I guess.
That felt good. The honesty. The vulnerability. The owning my bullshit. I’m still talking to myself, but it’s OK. I should do more of that.