This is me. Not a character I wrote. Not a fake journal entry. Me. Who am I? A stereotype, mostly. I’m the nerd who lives in a basement (well, attic in my case) and plays video games, reads, and writes fiction. That’s the outside.
Inside, I’m a writer. I don’t think I’ve ever said this publicly, but through all my failures, yeah, I only see myself as a writer. A writer of limited skill, self-taught because I’m convinced attending a class will throw me into a Throw Momma From The Train situation, and completely terrified of a stranger’s judging eye.
I’ve tried writing novels. The first was… ill-advised, with conflicting themes and a “kitchen sink” approach to storytelling. I’d love to refine it… but it’s beyond saving.
The second eventually became the second and the third. I learned more during that eight month period than I did during the 6 YEARS(!!!) the first took me. I did some research, worked on my format, developed a (lackluster) style, and actually entertained the notion of sending it off to publishers (back when it was one LARGE manuscript, which proves how dumb I still am). Here’s the thing:
I’m still not good enough. I suck, really. Or, rather… that’s what my mind tells me. That little voice I’ve had all my life, scolding me for every word – written OR spoken – and reminding me of just how awful I am. Inadequate. Incompetent. I’ve named this voice Shiddy.
For so long, I held back everything I wrote, kept it to myself because I was so insecure. Then, out of nowhere a few months back, I got the courage to try showing it to people I know!
Turns out no one ever wanted to read my stuff. So… well, poop.
There are other options. Places I could submit these stories to for review, workshops I could take part in. That kind of thing… I’m just not ready for it yet. Directly submitting something to a group or individual, with the knowledge I WILL get an opinion back, is impossible. Seriously, just thinking about it now makes me feel sick. I entered a contest once, it didn’t end well. I give up easily.
So, I’m stuck. I’ll never get better – and in fact, I may be getting worse – because I haven’t gotten any useful opinions. Usable criticism. Meanwhile, the gap between writing sessions only grows larger. This “creative muscle” turns to mush so easily. I can’t fine-tune what I once NEARLY completed because, well, I’m no longer at my best.
Something needs to happen, so… this blog exists now. I’m submitting stuff to the INTERNET, but at no one in particular. That somehow feels different. When I’m not toiling away with a youtube channel that’ll never be worth the effort it takes to run, or writing for some awesome gaming sites I’m not qualified to be part of, I’m gonna try to go back to writing short stories. Random scenes that come to me at 5am.
If I can get some impartial opinions… maybe I can get somewhere or, at the very least, be able to stop kidding myself. Knowing me, there will also be plenty more where this came from – windows into my mind that nobody asked to be opened. A writer’s gotta write, right?
Even when it’s 6:45am and my fingers are damn-near frozen, thanks to my general distrust of space heaters.
Also, THANKS FOR READING THIS. If you took the time to read this far, even if you skimmed, that means something… like, for example, that you’re a bored individual. That practically makes you family.