When I started this journey seven plus years ago, I didn't have an exact goal in mind. I tried to write books several times over the preceding years, but I never finished one. I guess my initial point was to finish a damn book. And then? Get it published, of course. It seemed so easy then.
Man, was I stupid.
Anyway, after those seven years & seven months, I'm wondering what the hell the point is. I've written so many books I lost track of the number. I've received so many rejections, I could wallpaper the entire inside of this house and have a few to spare as wrapping paper (or litterbox liners). I've studied umpteen posts, joined and left several forums, had and lost crit partners, beta readers, and blog followers.
This year has been the second low point of my career. The first was after Spectacle (my first book) got rejected to death and I felt like maybe I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. I got over that one but it took me nine months to write anything again. That one felt horrible. This one somehow seems worse.
It's been since about February - when I finished the first draft of my NaNo novel - that I wrote anything I really felt good about. You know, new words that made me feel all shiny inside.
I read somewhere that it took Ken Follett something like 11 years to sell Eye of the Needle. 11 years? Seriously? And the other day, I was grousing about the 'why am I doing this' over at Janet's Journal when Silver James said it took her 20 years. I guess looking at that, I shouldn't be whining. I just don't have the faintest clue how they did it. How do you keep slogging through this day after day for that many years without either going insane and shooting off your writing hand or giving up to find some less heart-stomping occupation - like unwanted-puppy euthanasia technician.
I know... Boo-hoo, whoa is me... blah blah blah. Blech. I'm tired of myself, and I don't know what to do. I feel like I've done everything this industry has asked of me. I wrote the book of my heart... Nope. I wrote something trendy and now... Nope. I wrote and wrote and wrote... Nada. I've worked and reworked and edited and re-edited and rewritten everything from my queries to my synopses to whole damn books, trying to make something happen. I've taken everyone's advice - from casual blog readers to betas and CPs to published authors who've chimed in to help. I'm still sitting here, writing for my own enjoyment and it's not so frickin' enjoyable anymore.
It kinda reminds me of that song from A Chorus Line - Dance 10 Looks 3. Maybe I need the writerly equivalent of a boob job. I wonder if some literary tits and ass would do the job. I wouldn't be myself anymore, but maybe that's what it takes. Sublimate everything to reach the ultimate goal of seeing my work in print.
Nah. I can't do that. I like my tits and ass the way they are. Sure, they could be firmer, but surgical procedures are a too drastic to consider.
So now I'm sitting here at 41 wondering if I just wasted a large portion of the past 7.583 years. I'm middle-aged for crissakes. How many more years am I going to spend sitting at this computer typing stories no one wants to read??? Seriously.
Is there a point?
To this post? Probably not much more of one than venting. To continuing to write? The jury's still out on that one. What's your point?