Having entered into a new stage of writerdom this year (having an agent and going on submission to editors), there is a whole new level of stakes that have appeared above my head. Figuring out what to write next has felt like choosing a major — for which I’m meant to spend months of time instead of scores of thousands of dollars.
It’s never easy, but folks, sometimes writing is just plain hard.
Yep. It’s tough. So I’ma lighten up your heavy load with some Supernatural GIFs today.
This month, it’s gotten to the point where if I so much as name a character, I feel like I deserve a parade.
This way doesn’t get so much done.
We’ve all been through the parts of life that seem to just go smoothly. Work ticks along and pays you accordingly, friends smile and buy you beers, ideas go from swirly glitter to execution without trouble. And around every corner, you get to see this:
That’s so much better than the days where nothing seems to work out. Twitter becomes as attractive as peanut butter to a hungry dog, and you spend hours trying to get it off the roof of your mouth so you can work but by that point you don’t even care anymore because you can write tomorrow.
There are days when life morphs into Cthulu and comes at you so hard that you can do nothing. NOTHING.
There are days where your packages don’t arrive and you step in dog poop on the way to work and sit on gum at the bus stop (and the bus doesn’t even arrive).
And then there are days when things seem okay, but inside, your heart sounds like the frontman of Meshuggah.
Those are usually the days that you see pie and this happens:
Wait, that’s every day.
When things get to that point, sometimes it can make you wonder why you wanted to be a writer at all. We pretty much sign ourselves up for a lifetime of self-flagellation. Why else would anyone ever submit their writing anywhere if every email notification makes you shriek and panic?
Then someone asks us what our book’s about or invites us to a writing sprint, and we go all FBI-Cas…
Our inner monologues turn into the way Dean imagines Sam.
And you pretend not to get it.
Your inner monologue doesn’t take it well.
But then something awesome happens. Your characters start blabbing in your head faster than you can write them down. You get an email that’s NOT a rejection. You painstakingly rat-a-tat-tat that last word of a novel.
For a moment, your brain gives you a hearty slap on the back.
And you look at your accomplishments and think…
And you realize for the 150 blobbityjillionth time that this is what you want to do. All the self-flagellating and stepped-in dog poop and life getting in the way and feeling like you’re bleeding on the keyboard — it all becomes worth it.
And that? It’s kind of like a parade in itself.