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You guys, I'mma be a convention guest. With, like, a speaking time and a meet and greet table and a biography with a photo and a book excerpt in a convention booklet. I know I mentioned it before but I was just speaking to the organiser on the phone and it's sinking in a bit and this is weird for me, okay, it's REALLY WEIRD.
I think I'm starting on the road to getting back on my feet a bit from the bad months earlier this year. Trying to sleep more, eat better, not beat myself up too much when I screw up. I'm sitting on an 81% average in my marks at night school, which is pretty dire compared to earlier forays into learnings, but I also wasn't working as many hours as I am now or writing novels then, so. (The peanut gallery in my head would like to point out that a book and a half in the last year doesn't really count as novels, plural, but I'm allergic to peanuts so the peanut gallery can just hush.)
But yes! It's weird. WEIRD. Like, my I'm-a-fraud-sense is tingling so hard that I want to curl up and die because come on, I'm such a fucking fraud, there's no way anybody thinks this whole "I'm a writer" crap is anything more than self-deluded bullshit on my part at best, pathetic at worst. And yet, I completely love these stories and love that they give me a chance to write scenes about racial identity in gold-rush-era America and about teenage love stories and about being a music fan and about vampires, and some of the vampire characters have been in my head since I was fourteen years old, these are stories I've been dreaming up since forever.
I hate myself for trying to write these books and love myself for trying to write these books, all at once.
Wacky.
I think I'm starting on the road to getting back on my feet a bit from the bad months earlier this year. Trying to sleep more, eat better, not beat myself up too much when I screw up. I'm sitting on an 81% average in my marks at night school, which is pretty dire compared to earlier forays into learnings, but I also wasn't working as many hours as I am now or writing novels then, so. (The peanut gallery in my head would like to point out that a book and a half in the last year doesn't really count as novels, plural, but I'm allergic to peanuts so the peanut gallery can just hush.)
But yes! It's weird. WEIRD. Like, my I'm-a-fraud-sense is tingling so hard that I want to curl up and die because come on, I'm such a fucking fraud, there's no way anybody thinks this whole "I'm a writer" crap is anything more than self-deluded bullshit on my part at best, pathetic at worst. And yet, I completely love these stories and love that they give me a chance to write scenes about racial identity in gold-rush-era America and about teenage love stories and about being a music fan and about vampires, and some of the vampire characters have been in my head since I was fourteen years old, these are stories I've been dreaming up since forever.
I hate myself for trying to write these books and love myself for trying to write these books, all at once.
Wacky.