Okay, I am tired of this. I am done. I am done, ironically, with not being done. I am tired of not finishing things, like a book I've been working on for eight years while every bandwagon in the world saddled up and passed me, and I am tired of being jealous of writers whose only sin was ACTUALLY FINISHING SOMETHING.
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I am printing this out and sticking it on every wall I own (and possibly tattooing it very tinily on the backs of my hands) because YES.
Especially this:
So all I can think to do is talk about the fact that writing can be hard, while I get myself productively indignant enough to fight my own insecurity. Because I'd rather get mad than pitiful. And maybe, once I've burned off that self-pitying fog, I can FINISH SOMETHING.
Thank you.
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sigh. pms.
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Man, I had been craving jalapenos for two or three days now.
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Now, that book? Done. Shelved away, but done. Two other books, done. Third one, rough draft done. I have an agent and a book is starting its journey through him to publishers. Things are happening.
This is my roundabout way of saying: GO YOU. Get it done. Because it can be.
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Part of my problem is that I see it as an eight-book series, very neatly divided in the middle with a Big Event, and I've front-loaded the whole stupid process with working out what could happen in the future books, because I'm obsessed with foreshadowing. I'm having to let go of that.
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