The Thing About Pep Talks...

They only provide valuable advise if you actually use said advise.

I did not use my advise from the previous post.

I have not written anything in days.

I know this is one of those Stupid Writer Things you're not supposed to do, but my depression has been in Super Awesome Overkill Mode since last week. I'd pretty much convinced myself that this was not for me, and that I was wasting my own time and my loved ones' patience trying to be a Real Writer (as opposed to the kind who writes hundreds of short stories that are well-received, but completely unpublishable due to their fannish nature).

But I'm not going to give up. I am working on a plan to get the same kind of encouragement I got for my short stories--namely, someone reading as I go along and telling me, "You can't stop now." That's how I wrote the first novel.

Fact is, I do not have it in me to be my own pep squad. There are simply too many insecurities there, soo much self-esteem crap pulling me down and distracting me from the business of putting words on the screen.

So Fey is going to read my pages on Fairville as I write them, and bully me into writing more.

It's sad, but it's come to this. I need a keeper.

Thank god for girlfriends and chocolate. The universe would collapse without them.

Momentum: Succeeding at the Speed of Molasses

I got my biweekly pep-talk (via email) from Jenn this morning. Her timing is amazing--I'd just gotten back into that whole "Who am I to think I can do this?" mentality. My partner Fey, who is the Queen of All Patience, talked me down from quitting the new novel entirely last night. And Jennifer, out of the blue, reminded me that I have to PERSIST. How crazy is that?

Persist.

I work a full-time job and have a full-time relationship. I enjoy the occasional five hours of sleep a night, and even watch television sometimes. I try to carve out two full hours of writing a day, which doesn't seem like much, but I can get quite a lot done in a focused two hours.

Recently, however, I've been sleeping through my two hours--just so tired and depressed and hopeless. It started creeping back into my subconscious, those thoughts that success was for other people, that talent isn't enough, and that I just don't have what it takes to make my dreams come true.

Then, of course, I got the refill on my Prozac and things are starting to look up.

My book is not the Worst Piece of Crap Ever Committed to Paper.

I am not the Laziest Person in the Universe.

I am not Born to Be a Failure.

I can watch the occasional episode of Desperate Housewives or Eastwick (Damn you, ABC, for cancelling this show!) without being a total slacker.

I just need to PERSIST. Turn on the laptop. Write another thousand words. I can write a thousand words in my sleep--sometimes, they come out better that way. Send another query letter.

I just need to persist. And lighten the hell up.

These are the Days I Will Smile Upon

...when I'm a successful, published writer. I will look back over the ever-growing stack of rejections and think, that was the real world. That was trying. That was moving beyond my comfort zone and facing rejection in order to finally realize my dreams.

And I will remmeber that, despite the rejection, it was still a pretty wonderful time.

So. Next query goes out. Allons-y!

How do parents write?

Ever?

I tried to do my usual hour or two at the laundromat this week, and found myself with a nine-year-old boy attached to my aura. He was very nice, very interested in every single thing I was doing, even polite--in a nine-year-old boy sort of way.

And I couldn't concentrate enough to write a thing.

I have a whole new respect for parents who manage to have writing careers.

Why Diets Don't Work

A little concoction my partner Fey threw together last night--mini lava cake with spiced creme fraiche. Okay, so I haven't lost any weight since she started on this insane spell of cooking. I can live with that.

Fairville

I started work in earnest on Fairville last night. It was so nice to be working on a new project after so long with the first novel. At this point, that baby is in the hands of the fates (or whatever literary agent wisely chooses to pick me up.)

I have to admit, I love the first part of working on a story or novel, when everything is still nebulous. You can go anywhere, do anything, and create your reality as you go along. I was kind of surprised last night at the tone one of my scenes was taking, but pleased. I know where I'm going in my head, but I have no particular path I'm emotionally attached to. I just fully intend to enjoy the journey, trusting my ability to tell a decent story and create interesting characters. Angst does not create good fiction; it creates ulcers.

Just a Metaphysic Monday!

That's right, it's Metaphysic Monday here at Ye Olde Day Job(TM). Time for deep conversations between reports and calls, pondering the depths of corporate philosophy over the cubicle walls. We've decided that our entire center is one big psychiastric experiment, and we're all lab rats used for the sole purpose of data-gathering. We're expected to go about our maze, preferably without the knowledge that we're in a maze, chasing that nibble of cheese and living our little ratlike lives. The guys in the white coats at Corporate monitor our progress, observe our little rodent hierachies, and jot things down in their steno pads. It's nothing personal--we're just rats, and we can't be expected to understand the things people in white coats write on steno pads.

That's a pretty typical Monday morning in my office.

This is why I need to become a full-time writer. At least then I'll know I'm a rat....

Why I Write

I write because I am NOT a painter. :)

Okay, I come from a family of artists. My mom and her two sisters are professional artist, several of my cousins are professional artists/designers, my dad owns a gallery and paints, my step-mother works in porcelain, and well, it's sort of a family thing.

Me? I am not an artist. I doodle. I scribble. As an artist, I make a very good singer. As a painter, I make a pretty darn good writer.

I offer below an illustration. My coworkers at The Day Job(TM) insisted I create this for our Halloween decorations. I call it Drunk Kitty on Posterboard. The media are Dollar Tree paints and White Out.

If I ever quit The Day Job(TM), it won't be to pursue a career in art.

Lessons

I want to have this list by Jessica Zelenko tattooed to my forearm.

Insecurity

I think I need to peruse this article by Jessica Faust at length. Seriously. Insecurity has been my constant companion ever since I decided to start pursuing a professional writing career--insecurity that never existed when I was just writing for fun. More on this later. My day job calls, and frankly, getting fired will not really decrease my stress. :)

I must be on the right track...

I just had a published author threaten to slap me. :0 Okay, not like that...or like that! Just in the "get over yourself, stop overthinking, hellooooo....McFly....." sort of way.

Oh, and in case you think all I do is write? My partner Fey is a fantastic cook. I eat a lot too. Check out her cooking blog Livejournal (Fey Cooks). I was losing weight. Now--not so much....

Sure Path to Insanity

When someone you love/respect/admire compares your writing to a published author, it may not be the best idea to go out and read that author. My writing was recently compared to a very mega-successful novelist out there. I'd heard of her, but never read her stuff. Borrowed a copy of one of her books from a coworker and have been reading through.

So here's where the insanity comes in--(read on for excerps from Deb's brain):

I'm not really loving this book.

It's okay, but the characters are not all that compelling.

Okay, some of it's okay, but not the greatest I've ever read.

Fill-in-the-Blank really thinks I write like *her*?

Is my book hard to get into?

Are my characters flat?

If this is what is selling, am I doing it wrong?

OMG, who the hell am I to think I can do this?

Fill-in-the-Blank is just being kind.

I'm a hack.

I wish I wrote more like Random-Author-I-Happen-To-Like-at-the-Moment. This writer is good--this writer writes *important* stuff. This writer's prose is tight, her characterization is intriquing, plots unobtrusive and natural.

I'm a total hack.

I might as well eat junk food.


This, boys and girls, is why you should never compare your work to others'.

Lesson complete. Have a nice day.

A Room of One's Own

I remember back in college reading that essay by Virginia Woolfe. In effect, she said, for a woman to write she must have an income of no less than 500 pounds and a room of her own. I think my modern equivalent of this has become a roll of quarters and a laptop at the laundromat.

Seriously, I get some of my best work done in those two hours a week I spend waiting for the wash cycle to end, or the dryers to go off. Thanks to the invention of headphones and MP3 music files, I don't really feel obligated to socialize.

I love to write at home, and I do for most of the time. But I have a 40 a week day job, a partner I adore (and find it very hard to ignore), and tons of responsibility.

At the laundromat, I'm just that chick with the lap top who doesn't fold her clothes until she gets home.

I can live with that.