Lately, I lose entire days to stress. I check my sales dashboard, find it lacking, and fall into a black hole of despair. I thought I was doing everything right, more or less, but I most certainly was not.
I’m not sure that I can continue on like this, feeling like my heart has been torn out of my chest every couple of weeks. There’s a lot of shit swirling around in my life. I’m trying to write a new, actually commercial, series, but I’m haunted by what I consider a failure. I’m contemplating–okay, I’m just going to say it–cutting ties with my mother. I’m getting married. I never mentioned that, but BF and I are getting married this year. That’s quite the bit of stress.
I tend to deny that anything besides writing is giving me grief, even when I’m wrecked with mom or friend or BF related stress. But I really do feel like it’s this oh so fun mix of why is my writing career so fucked and WTF else am I going to do with my life–WTF am I doing with my life. Period. I try to talk it over with friends or boyfriend, but they never get it. I feel so melodramatic explaining how much the thought of giving up on a writing career hurts. It feels like a black hole opened and sucked me inside. And that’s so ridiculous and overblown, but that’s how it feels–like that black hole opened inside of me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
That is how I feel right now. There’s a weight on my chest and it’s so damn heavy. I’m not sure that I’m cut out for this publishing thing. I need something else in my life I can latch onto. Writing has been my reason to get up in the morning for as long as I can remember having a reason to get up in the morning (the bed really is so damn comfy).
I’ve been ignoring my blog, because I feel like I say the same damn things over and over again. My problems feel so petty and entitled. I have a nice life overall. I’m not in dire financial straights. Hell, BF claims he’s happy to support me if I want to be a writer/housewife indefinitely. But that isn’t why this hurts. It’s not the practical bits. It’s all the things inside me, this big gaping hole where being a damn adult should be. I am not a real adult. I am not responsible. I cannot take care of myself. And that is all I want–to be able to take care of myself, on my fucking terms, with my fucking money.
I need to be able to do that, and I feel like I’m banging my head against a wall with this writing and publishing thing. Maybe it’s a nut I can’t crack. Maybe it’s hopeless. Maybe it’s just not going to happen for me. Two years ago, if you told me I wouldn’t be a romance novelist, I wouldn’t have given a damn. It was never something I wanted to do. I don’t think I’d ever read any books in any romance sub-categories (besides YA). It was never something I wanted, but now it feels so awful that I’m failing at it.
I never wanted to write to market, to write bland, paint by the numbers shit. If that is my only choice, is it really worth it? Or do I just finish up my year, finish up my next series my way, and throw it out into the world (with a solid marketing plan) to sink or swim? I’d have to be okay with the possibility of it sinking, of my writing career tanking like the mother fucking titanic.
This isn’t what I signed up for, so why does it hurt so much that I suck at it?
Maybe it’s easier if I stop throwing good money and good time after bad, if I learn to program and spend the other 128 hours of my week doing whatever I want, losing none of them to the sinking feeling that I’m a hopeless fuck up?