I've had way too many conflicting moments of reckoning to put too much stock into any of them.
First, I got it into my head that I have too much financial anxiety in the short-term to exhibit any kind of grit or perseverance to keep writing fiction and make a long-term career of it.
Then, I decided I must look for a job, a real one with the promise of a regular paycheck, and that it must not be writing-related because I wanted to try my hand at something new, something that won't involve long hours at the writing desk in solitude.
But when I looked at my résumé, it was evident that writing was all I had done for the past two decades, and even my interests and hobbies had to do with reading or playing with D! No running marathons or jumping off cliffs or kayaking or deep-sea diving for me to list as interesting pursuits.
And then, it occurred to me that barring a handful of writers, most who've tasted success in the indie publishing area have a huge backlist.
So why couldn't I sit and write and build a backlist without the promise of success, both near-term and far-term? Why couldn't I simply persevere and trust that I will find material success at some point?
Then, at one point I believed that I had to write every day, come what may, in order to build a backlist.
But this challenge is showing me that unless I have a deadline looming over me, I don't really feel like writing every day.
But, to be honest, I don't know who I am or what my pattern is. The other day I thought I had it all figured out, that I was a morning writer, an afternoon daydreamer, an evening blogger, and a nighttime reader. After two good days of writing fiction, I was unable to make progress on the manuscript this morning.
Too many such questions swirled in my mind, so I went for a walk, thinking that would help clear my head, but after that I ended up spending the entire afternoon watching The Family Man. It's hilarious!
And now, because I've been blogging daily as part of the ongoing writing challenge, I'm here to pen my thoughts for the day.
I think what I'm seeking is some kind of certainty, that if I were to keep writing, I'd find success some day in some way. But alas, no one can guarantee me any such thing.
When that unknown is so inevitable, why do I let it rob all joy from writing? Not as if I want it to, but it's almost as if I'm a helpless bystander in this entire unfolding of events.
With that, I'll end today's post, because this particular pattern – of writing with much joy, then worrying about having no short-term income to the extent that I'm unable to write, then getting back to the manuscript after a few days and wondering what all the drama was about, only for that cycle to repeat itself – has been going on for far too long.
So I'm off now to continue watching The Family Man, while my subconcious works out how to untangle itself from this mess it keeps falling into.