We have two winter storms hitting this week, Gentle Reader, and I’m cozy warm in my office with a cup of English restorative tea (with milk) listening to David Bowie, missing him, but loving his body of work, too. CP: “Starman.” Next: “The Man Who Sold the World.”
I’ve been thinking a lot about writing because mine is not going so well. I’ve sent my draft along to readers, but I’m stuck, stuck in a way I haven’t been stuck in some time. I need to unstuck myself, but I’ve never been very good at writing exercises other than BICHOK: Butt in Chair, Hands on Keyboard. So here I am, in said chair, with said hands on keyboard. It’s not fiction, but it’s writing. It’s loosening the cobwebs, at least.
But here’s the problem: I have impostor syndrome pretty intensely, and that means that when I hit walls writing, or when I get rejected, I immediately turn dark, thinking that nothing will ever lead to my goal of being a novelist. It’s the one thing I’ve wanted to be since I was a small child–I came to teaching rather late in life, in college–and I’m in constant fear that I will not accomplish my goal. I’ve two novels being shopped, but they haven’t been bought yet. And that hurts my soul.
So… so what? Does one give up on a lifelong goal? Or does one write more, keep writing, writing every day and every way until something sticks? Yes, of course the second, but a moment to listen to Bowie, drink milk tea, and cry a little. For me. For Bowie. For us.
Love to you all, Friends.
The Postmodern Bluestocking 