Buckets and Knives

Is it worth it, then?

Besides getting ready to be away, and I am honestly on the cusp of away, the other activity I have engaged in this week is to read over the troll story, see what I have so far, and see where I need to go next. I've written books like this before. I want to go back and shore things up for the idea I have, rather than try to remember 20 things to add in later.

I'm not...displeased. It seems to work, and there are some surprises that my subconscious inserted that turn out to be just what I needed. The pages that I have represent steady work on the project since April, with the exception of about a week on Oliver Toddle. It's not going at the pace Substance did, but few things do. I remind myself that this thing is writing itself at the speed it's writing itself, and for a day job writer, I'm kicking butt and taking names on speed.

Here's where the bottom falls out. I don't know if writers are like buckets with holes in the bottom or what. I'm averaging a nice writerly thing about once every 5 months, give or take, and I get warm fuzzies. About a week or two later, I don't feel like I've accumulated these nice writerly things. The bucket seems empty. I want more. I want to finish the troll story, send that out, and see if it's the one. I want to have a book deal. It is all about filling the bucket.

My usual strategy in the face of impatience and angst is to count my blessings and remind myself of patience. It's also to think of how close things are, and how much progress I'm making. You follow the journal. You know. I won't bore you with enumeration.

However, there are times that you just want to scream. Times when you know you're on the edge of something, getting an agent or a book deal, and the uncertainty of not knowing if makes you want to beat your fists against your savage breast (can we say that in 2009?) The no I can almost deal with more easily than the dance on the knife edge of not knowing.

So many of you tell me that this is the career, never knowing for sure about...everything, watching the knife glimmer and twist, hoping you don't fall off the edge as it turns on you. Hoping that the writing ends up where you want it to be. Hoping that eventually it's all going to pan out, whatever that next step in your career you want to take is. The book deal. The agent. The numbers. The next book. The advance. And so on.

Is it worth it? Especially since there seems to be a hole in the bucket, and the stuff you put in leaks out?

It seems to be, even then, because you guys keep dancing on the uncertain edge of the knife with a persistence that amazes me. I keep doing it too. I am discouraged and tired at points, but I keep going. Just like an addict?

There's a point where we must believe in ourselves and not care about that sharp, sharp edge. I think if we stopped poking the bucket with the knife, maybe things would be different, and we could be more zen. Maybe.

Back to deep breathing and attempting to wait until it's the right time for the cosmos. I've hammered my fists enough for now, and if I haven't, I'm going to a support group for writers all next week. We can all be pathological together.

Meanwhile, you get a free ticket to angst here. I've succumbed to one moment of weakness. If you need to, knock yourself out.

Catherine

Mirrored from Writer Tamago.