I’m worried. I finally finished a draft of my novel, and the epilogue is a mere 300 words. I kept thinking I should add to it, but I didn’t know what I should add to it. I still don’t.
I was going to wait a couple of weeks before I started my first read-through, but I’ve jumped into it already. As it turns out, I don’t remember many of the beginning’s details, so I’ll need to fix the consistency.
Then I got triggered this morning. How is immaterial. The catalyst was minor, not something I can really explain. It affected me so much because I’ve already not been doing my best.
I feel like, for the past two years, I’ve been stuck with nowhere to move. I feel like I’ll always be here.
It occurred to me, with a violent wrench, that my dreams of being an author are childish. Idiotic. This stupid passion I thought had sustained me is nothing but an elaborate fantasy. I’m a failure, and my so-called “creative writing” is an attempt to hide my failure from myself, to tell myself, well, it’s not really failure because I get to do this now.
What makes me think I even have the right to be a writer? Look at all the novelists out there. There are a lot of terrible ones, sure, but there are also a lot of good ones. What makes me think I can fit in amongst them? I can’t. That glory is not for me. It’ll never be for me.
My “love of writing” is just stupid juvenile fancy, something to distract me from the real world.
I have no right, and my dreams are stupid, and I’ll feel even stupider when I strive and strive only to never have my ambitions fulfilled.
I felt a momentary urge to burn my hard copy, the one on which I’ve been correcting typos and writing sporadic marginalia.
(N.B.: The following applies to “real life.”)
I’ll never be able to form a connection with anyone, either, not ever. I can’t help but distance myself. Besides, that ship has sailed. Once you reach a certain age, you’re expected to already have those connections, not begin to form them. Those units are already formed. There’s nothing left to join, and people care only about those in their units. Everyone else doesn’t matter.
The world is a hard, cruel place. People care only about self-promotion. Life is all business, about knowing the right people so you can advance yourself. People are valuable only insofar as they are “useful.” You can’t let your guard down, not ever, because it’ll be used against you one day. (No, this didn’t just happen to me–that wasn’t the trigger.) People treat life like business, only caring about “getting ahead,” disregarding the inner core of those they deal with.
Quiet desperation. That’s what I feel. Measured, muted torment, not the frantic kind.
I want to hurt myself just so I can prove to myself I’m not okay. Because this controlled demeanor, it must mean I’m okay, right?
But that would be calculated self-harm, not real self-harm. A way of doing what I do best–putting on a performance.
I was going to write about Blog for Mental Health 2013 today, but this–this I had to get out.
“Quiet desperation. That’s what I feel. Measured, muted torment, not the frantic kind.
I want to hurt myself just so I can prove to myself I’m not okay. Because this controlled demeanor, it must mean I’m okay, right?
But that would be calculated self-harm, not real self-harm. A way of doing what I do best–putting on a performance.”
–You’re not the only one who feels this way. Most my self-harm is calculated (for one reason or another) and it is still REAL self harm. Try not to be so hard on yourself, I know easier said than done.
But even when I do self-harm, it’s not drastic. That’s another reason why I sometimes feel like it’s not real self-harm.
Thanks for the encouragement.
When I started self-harming it was just digging my fingernails into my wrists in high school, released the pressure or help me hold my anger. Since then things have progressed and the self-harm would “appear” to be more severe, like having a couple red scars. But the other day I was looking at my wrists and there are permanent little white lines that are there from my fingernails and I never thought that was “drastic.” Perspective and time changes things, I’m guessing looking back you may see things differently.
And your welcome for the encouragement. I really enjoy both blogs and glad you are back posting here and there.
I write to distract myself from the real world too, I consider it to be a good thing. It isn’t like life and the world aren’t still out there. But it sure is nice to take a break from them, and it sure as hell beats some of the other ways I used to use to try to obliterate them.
Write because you love it. Dreams are never stupid, sometimes they are all that sustain us when nothing else seems to.
Yes, at some points my dreams have sustained me when nothing else could. I just don’t like the idea of putting so much effort into something to have it be for nothing. I do think everyone has moments when they need to distract themselves from the real world. Sometimes I’m afraid I become too oblivious to the real world, though.
Don’t put yourself down like this. Every writer goes through difficult times. There are famous authors who have some books published while other books of theirs were turned down. Not every book will make it through, but it doesn’t mean you won’t. Plus, everyone has to start somewhere. A novelist isn’t born a novelist – a person is born, wants to become a writer, then eventually transforms into a novelist. You have to push yourself and follow your passion. Remember to do it for the love of writing, not for the hope of getting published. That way, if you don’t ever get published, at least you can honestly say at the end of your life that you did what you loved, what made you happy. A lot of people (most of them, actually) can’t say that. Don’t give up just yet though. Remember, there are so many great people out there who didn’t make it right away. It takes patience and perseverance, and (something you should work on) faith in oneself. My favorite example is J.K. Rowling. Harry Potter was given the title “best series in history,” and THAT got turned down by twelve different publishing houses before getting published. And you want to know the deciding factor for the publisher? He gave it to his eight-year-old daughter to read, who demanded for more. And BAM, look where she is today. You can do it, too. Have a little faith!
Only 12, eh? I’ve heard of people getting rejected by dozens of publishers . . . but yeah, even being rejected by 12 would be highly discouraging. Or one. Although I know rejections are guaranteed, they make me nervous.
Writing is a passion, so I know I should follow it. It’s just so intimidating sometimes, and I get afraid that all my work and obsession is for nothing. Thanks for the lovely words.