My writing is not going so well. The cynical side of me asserts that this means most of my writing friends and peers are happy, through their crocodile tears, to hear that fact. One writer bites the dust, and there’s one more crumb of the “successful writing cake” to go around the hungry writing crowd.
The optimistic side says that writing friends are the ones who will empathize most with this feeling of writerly failure. No one else understands the grief of feeling words slip through their fingers, of staring at a blank page on Word for hours…and hours.
My writing is a bunch of shit. It’s awkward, the characters aren’t fully developed, and I can’t figure out how to get them there, either. The words aren’t flowing, and nothing feels right. Now I understand why so many writers drink. And do drugs. Or become total recluses.
When I stare at the page, helpless, not knowing my own characters, not finding the right words, not having a command for the story’s landscape, I just feel so worthless. I feel like nothing. No, I don’t feel like nothing–I feel like a piece of aged dog turd, just one day from dissipating into dust. Some days I’m too exhausted to write, some days I don’t even know the writer I used to be. I’m working with a new brain that I can’t figure out. I’m so discouraged.
One minute I’m walking through a parking lot, the next minute, a part of my brain is dead, and I’ve lost the ability to read and write (let alone remember), and I get to spend the next year learning to write again, only to realize I now write differently and I’m starting all over again as a new writer. When the writing goes so poorly, for so long, I want to kill myself. When I realize how much has changed and how little control I have over these changes, well you get it–I hate being alive.
I struggle. I think, “I don’t want to kill myself,” and consider killing the character off instead. I have that power. But I have tons of doubt–it doesn’t fit the story to kill the character. And before you say, “Go for it, Jade! Kill the character!” No. It doesn’t fit the story, really. And before you say, “It’s okay…”–it is NOT OKAY. It’s not okay. I don’t want to kill myself, and yet the story does not move forward, I feel like a total failure.
So I’m a failure that is alive and wants to live. I’m one of the millions of people on this earth just using up the oxygen. If I don’t write, what the hell am I on earth for?
I’m hoping this will all pass quickly. I think I’ve got to just ride out the storm. Or the stillness, in this case.
But in sum–it SUCKS. It’s HELL.