Monday, and all is spinny like a mofo.
It was a tough weekend. I had to work through a lot of things–illness and depression among them–to get some writing done, but I got them. Perseverance, I call it. Or maybe I just got nothing better to do. Either way, I did it. Bully for me.
I wake up today, feeling okay, but I still have this cloud over my head. I know what I’ve got waiting for me in my Work in Progress, and it’s going to be meaty. I know what I have to edit in my NaNo Novel. You set your mind to what is ahead and get ready to do it.
Then I get distracted. Not in bad ways, mind you . . . but there are distractions.
One is from someone in my family. Not my immediate family, but someone in it nonetheless. Someone who is becoming a annoying conservatoid who enjoys posting crap on my Facebook wall while they can’t be bothered to post anything on their own. In the past I’ve warned them to stop, and even deleted their posts, but this time I called them out. I pretty much told them they were full of shit and they should get the fuck off my wall. Not in the mood for their political BS this morning, let me tell you, particularly when their line of reasoning tends to just pull an opinion out of their butt. As I like to say, “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence–and since you don’t have the later, I’m calling bullshit on the prior”.
This morning I’ve also had to console a writer friend. They are having one of those moments of doubt that I feel a lot of writers have, the one where their voice starts telling them, “You suck, dude. You’re wasting your time with this crap. Why don’t you stick to something that’s a little more soul sucking and leave the creativity to the hacks making billions off garbage?” They’re at that moment where they’re wondering why they both writing, because even though they’ve published a novel, they’re not feeling that ego stroke that comes from getting nice 4-star reviews and the like.
I relayed to them something I read long ago. It was a quote from Stephen King, something he wrote in “Danse Macabre”. Without having to look it up, it goes something like, “If you write because you want to, because you have to, you’re a writer. If you write just for the money, you’re a monkey.”
I also feel if you write because you just want to hear how great your stuff is, you’re also a monkey. Yes, we all want to feel that ego stroke, but if that’s the only reason you’re writing, then writing is your form of masturbation, and the review you get from those people who’s job it is to give reviews, that’s your climax.
I’ve literally spent decades decrying my own writing abilities. Every time I’d get close to finishing something, my mind would tell me, “You suck, dude. Forget about it. Leave the creativity to the hack who make money off crap, ‘kay?” I’d do this because it’s easy. Yeah, it’s real easy to tell yourself you suck and that your stories don’t matter, try doing something that’s a little more soul sucking.
I’m tried of that crap. I need more. I need to do this, because this is what I want to do.
I write for myself. But I won’t like. I have someone out there who has read me and likes my work. They want to see more. And if I stop writing they’ll not only be disappointed, they’ll be sad. I don’t want that. Even more than my own sadness, I don’t want to contribute to theirs.
Forget the fracking clowns. Forget the reviewers. Forget the pandering of substandard work as something spectacular that’s going to change the world. It means jack.
All that matters is that I write. And I write well. And I tell damn good stories.
All else is secondary.
Got that? Good.
Now go write.