What a Wednesday

What have I been up to, readers?

Mostly flipping from one existential crisis to another. Letting myself be crushed by self-doubt and trepidation. Groaning about my predicament and not getting enough work done.

Enough, though, isn’t a real value. My ‘enough’ isn’t the same as someone else’s. Honestly, I’ll never be able to be enough because I’m caught up in the idea of where I want to be rather than the actual journey to get there.

I have been writing. I’ve composed the third draft of a scary story I’ll be submitting to an anthology competition. I’ve crafted two and half episodes for my newest vella idea. I published another episode of Henri. I am tip tapping away most days on my keyboard, coming up with a delightful mixture of nonsense along with all of the real progress I’m making each session.

A year ago, I wasn’t writing very much at all. I was fiddling with the same novel I’d already written seventeen other times, tweaking things here and there, but never making a dent in the real work that goes into creating a full book. The person I was a year ago would have crumbled under the strain of balancing multiple projects and running a blog and posting on social media. A year ago I wouldn’t have been able to manage any of my now weekly goals.

Which is crazy.

I’m typically so busy with my nose in a book or my eyes on my screen that I don’t notice time going by. I need to take a deep breath. One year ago, I had a partial project to my name. I was a college dropout with no real plan for the future. I was barely writing.

Since then, I‘ve written an entirely new novel on a side character who took hold of his story. I have people reading my writing. It’s online and on kindle vella, officially published for people to see and admire and judge. It has been terrifying just hitting publish over and over again.

What if the next thing I write down is a colossal failure?

What if my writing never amounts to anything important or real or successful?

Am I wasting my time?

It’s too easy to slip off of a mental high point and loathe myself. It’s too easy to judge myself for taking an evening off or forgetting to post on Instagram. It’s too damn easy to give up.

So, I am going to start making an effort to celebrate the small stuff because I have no idea who I’ll be a year from now, but that writer deserves someone rooting for her rather than tearing her down.

To those who have been following along with my writing journey, thank you for giving me the support and confidence to continue.

And to my wife, who will undoubtedly read this a few minutes after I hit publish, thank you. For talking me off a ledge this morning and every time up to this point. I would have given up on writing years before I got good at it if it wasn’t for your gentle belief in me and your unwavering dedication to the little voices in my head.

Today was a hard one as a writer. Tomorrow will be better.