It’s probably time I go back to Twenty-Five, do a little more editing, re-write my query letter, and try and get it published. This article (click here) has inspired me. I’m afraid of failing- it’s probably the biggest fear I have, so instead of going for it, I don’t even try. I bury my nose in a book, I go off to a job I’m not proud of, and I hide away from the world. Well, that has got to stop! If I can go on the radio and make a complete ass out of myself, I can send out some freaking query letters! Even if that means getting rejected 100 times. *and for the record, I’ve currently been rejected 14 times by agents* I know I could go the self-publishing route, but I kinda want to see if there’s any shot at all of doing it the traditional way. Hell, getting rejected by every agent and publisher under the sun could be a good thing for me- it could teach me resilience, show me that there are worse things in life than failing. And maybe it won’t be failing at all to be rejected, just a rite of passage every writer must go through. Doesn’t it already sound like I’m getting healthier?
Twenty-Five
Goodbye 26, Hello 27.
I have officially been 27 years old for two days now. Weird. Super weird. Getting older the last couple of years continues to stress me out. Stop-I know what you’re thinking- “27! You’re still so young!” Yes, yes, so I’ve heard. It still stresses me out.
When I was 24, I began writing a book knowing that my 25th birthday was approaching and I hadn’t accomplished anything real in my life. I finished the first draft of the book before my birthday, and I DID feel accomplished. I started editing. I listened to review after review and made change after change. I took away, I added. I created this beautiful little story that I love dearly and will always cherish.
And then I got scared. I stopped editing. I stopped believing that my pretty little book was worth anything and I stopped attempting to get it published. Then I turned 26 and I stopped writing almost altogether. I had ideas, but seemed incapable of making anything out of them.
I joked a lot in the few weeks leading up to my 27th birthday that it was going to be 26 Part 2, because I still felt like I hadn’t accomplished anything. Turning yet another year older and feeling like my life was out of my control and pathetic, I wanted to hide my head in the sand. I couldn’t stand the thought of admitting that I was 27 years old and still living with my parents, still stuck in a dead end job, still blocked from writing, still alone. But I’ve never been someone who has presented myself as anything other than who I am, so I figure I just need to get over all that shit and focus on being happy, no matter where I am in life, no matter how unsuccessful I feel or appear to the world.
I made a new friend this past Friday night, while I was out singing karaoke to celebrate the blessed event. She asked how old I was turning and I gave her the joke answer: 26 part 2. She said something to me that I hope I can learn to believe in. She said that I should be excited to be who I am right now- that this year of my life is going to be amazing and I should be proud of everything I’ve accomplished in my 27 years. She also said that I write like a hummingbird and then gave her guy friend my phone number! We were both a little tipsy- but the sentiment holds!
So anyways. I’m going to try and embrace year number 2-7. If you see me complaining, you have my permission to smack me.
Putting Down the Pen?
I’ve wanted, for a while now, to be able to take a memory, something from my past, and write a deep, meaningful, reflective post about it. Problem is, I can’t seem to come up with a memory that would allow me to write anything of significance. I could talk about choices I made that, in retrospect, were probably wrong or I could talk about moments when I thought my heart was breaking, but again, in retrospect, it probably wasn’t, but I don’t think I’d get the reflective piece I was hoping for. I should probably be thankful I’ve lived a fairly even-keeled life. There have been no times of great tragedy, only disappointment and regret, but there have also been no times of tremendous joy, only fleeting happiness. In the grand scheme of things, I should consider myself lucky.
I’ve been having a lot of trouble writing for a long time now- pretty much since I finished the second big edit of Twenty-Five. Poetry, short stories, attempts at novels- nothing is working. I have begun to wonder if I should put the pen down and forget about this whole writing thing. Not that I want to, necessarily.
I’ve never been successful at anything I’ve attempted to do. At least, I don’t feel like I have been. Always good, never great. Which makes me think I’m not choosing the right things. Honestly, when I think about it, the only thing I ever really excelled at was school. So, I’ve been thinking about going back to school. I’ve wanted to get a graduate degree pretty much since I received my undergraduate one, but the timing has never been right or the money’s never been available. I still don’t know if the timing is right and I know there isn’t money available, but if I keep waiting, I could be waiting forever, right?
I don’t know for sure yet what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, or even the next couple of years. I wish I did. I wish I knew if I had it in me to write another book. I keep trying and failing. And I hate failing. I keep thinking one day I’ll have the time to devote to another story. One day I’ll develop characters that really speak to me. One day I’ll come up with a plot that is so freaking fantastic that it will basically write itself. But how long can I wait for one day?
I feel lost and confused and really guilty that I haven’t had anything of quality to post on this blog in a very long time.
I Picked Up a Pen One Day... 