Being a writer is not what I thought it would be. I had some illusion that once I started writing, all the words would flow. My protagonist (what a nice word so you don’t have to say he or she) started on a journey, knocked on a door and nobody answered.
“Hello, anyone home?”
That’s what I keep wondering. Where are the rest of my words? Why aren’t they there? I know where I want it to go, but getting from “Danny jumped out of bed with the energy and determination of one who knew a birthday surprise was waiting,” to “Danny couldn’t stop the tears from flowing nor erase the image of dusty flying through the air,” without a lot of words in the middle.
Besides not finding the words of that great novel you are working on, you have to find someone, anyone, who is as enthusiastic as you are. I know for a fact, that when I begin talking plots and books and publishing business, my husband’s eyes glaze over. His one-word responses, “Yes,” or “Ug-huh,” are quite telling. He lets me write, this crazy woman staying home all day with the dog, typing God knows what on the computer, but he doesn’t want to hear about it.
Maybe when I make a million dollars selling my award, winning, Hollywood-grabbing plots, he’ll say two words. “Great Job!”
No, he’s not that bad, but still, everyone in your family may or may not be your best avenue of sharing all the wonderful ideas you have to offer. That’s when you find a critique group.
I’ve found one. They are honest and tell me straight out, “That doesn’t work for me.” Even if it’s a pretend future, they’ll call you on it or at least make you aware that the reader might, probably put the book down, if they have the same thoughts.
So that leaves me back to that door where nobody’s answering. Where did all my words go?
I’ve written a few children’s books. They are different than most children’s books in that I use photographs for my illustrations. I’ve been printing them myself for the last 4 years, but want to stop doing that and find a traditional publisher. That’s a scary game in itself.
Back in 2017 after I wrote my first Jazzy Book, I sent it off to 26 agents. I suppose having responses from two of them was like hitting a gold mine. They both said, cute books but not for me. I boohooed a while and gave up on it all. I began printing them myself.
Now that I have ten books, I realize I don’t have the stamina to market them properly (nor the budget) so I’m back to sending out queries. I’ve only sent out three, and very recently, but I can’t help the doom and gloom that crawls into my brain. “Nobody wants me.”
Yes, I said that. “Nobody wants me.” My books are an extension of me. If someone doesn’t like my books, I can’t help feeling that they don’t like me. That is another can with worms crawling into old insecurities and depressed feelings.
It’s hard being a writer, especially one that hasn’t published a “real” book yet. When I say that, I mean that I haven’t made it to America’s top 100 books. Only then, when your book has some seal of approval on it, some marker of success, do you feel like you’ve become a writer.
It ain’t easy dealing with the guilt either. I like to think of myself as a productive member of society. I’ve spent many years working, raising kids, helping other people. After four hours of sitting in front of my computer watching my cursor blink, I can’t help feel that I should have been stocking shelves at the local store, at least that would make us some money.
But I wake up with words in my head. Just this morning, I woke with a civil war-era story about the wife of a trapper living high up in the mountains. Her husband has been dead for many years and she has a few farmhands, freed slaves that she depends upon. One of the young men found a dead confederate soldier and took his hat, coat and boots. Unfortunately, a troop of lost Union soldiers came across her cabin and small field of crops and saw the young man and killed him thinking he was a confederate spy.
Who wakes up with plots like that in their heads if they are not a writer?
Anyway, before I can get to that story, which is demanding me to continue, I have to finish my other stories. I won’t get on America’s top ten if I don’t finish a book, any book. I have to somehow stop writing the other four stories I’ve worked on and finish one. But which one? Ah, the problems we writers have.
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