Earlier today I went to a reading with Barth Anderson, who used markteppo
, and jaylake
as a warm-up act.
I suppose I've made some personal progress in admitting openly that I am depressive, which is to say I have not been formally diagnosed as such, but I suspect I could be. Part of the depressive attitude comes from feeling unsuccessful as a writer. Part of that comes from three sales in 150 submissions, but is also fueled by a growing inability to write.
So I am quite pleased with myself that I managed 1,200 words on a story today, and will hopefully get more done tonight. I know that writing brings me happiness. I've been listening to Writing Excuses and they recently said "the only time writing is a waste of time is when you stop writing." That has helped be stay on task, because I really do not want to believe that I've wasted three years of my life chasing this dream.
When I go to a reading I often wonder at how natural other people's words sound, and strive to write with the same fluidity. I imagine that great prose comes out in great swaths of wordage. This is part of what fueled me to say that all writing is genius, and that it takes practice to get the daily crap out to start in with great writing. For me, that means run-on sentences. It means thoughts connected to the blurring jumble point. One day I will write so well it will shine.
And then I will see success.