(I had second thoughts about sharing this with you, but I think it’s important to talk about all my moods, even when they make me look like a whiny fuck. Proceed at your own risk.)
Writers are a stubborn lot. In the face of the most abysmal sales, we keep on doing it. Writing, I mean.
What makes us keep bashing our heads against that creative wall? Today, I thought, “I could be playing video games. I could be out enjoying the many interesting things my city has to offer. Getting falling down drunk. Fucking my brains out. Painting something wonderful. Taking pictures. Taking a nap.”
In other words, I could be doing all the things normal people do. But instead, I was reworking a story and writing the opening to a new one. I didn’t get far with the latter; my heart wasn’t in it.
I grow weary of slaving away on my stories for little to no return. Self-publishing has not been good for me. No matter how good the reviews (and I’ve had some really good ones), no matter how much promo I or my friends do (much thanks to you, my friends!), and despite a sexy new cover on Three of Swords, my sales hover just above zero.
Where am I lacking? What have I missed? I keep reading about other authors making six figure incomes and I want to weep.
Oh! I know. I’m controversial. I rant and rave about assorted things on my blog, which turns everyone off. Yeah. That I can believe. If that’s the case, then it’s my fault. I have no one to blame but myself.
As I cannot help being who I am–which is an opinionated, often loud-mouthed individual–q.e.d. (quod erat demonstrandum) I should give up writing.
What’s the bloody point if few want to read my stuff? I could be playing video games, etc.
I miss playing video games. I miss reading for hours every day. I miss taking walks and going on drives and spending time with my friends. I miss so much! And for what?
I could get it all back if I’d just STOP WRITING. I could be normal again. NORMAL. Whatever that is.
I’d certainly be less crazed.
(Am I the only writer who feels this way?)