That ugly old devil! He likes to see me suffer as I bleed out the words. He gets in my head and feeds my brain all kinds of reasons why I shouldn’t write stories — books. What do I know? Where interesting have I ever traveled? What could I know about romantic relationships or dating — I’ve been married to the same man for over 50 years (yeah, I have). My stories are crap, not intriguing, the characters are flat — the situations contrived, whatever that means. A synopsis I once wrote was reviewed by an editor who told me that. Said the plot was “contrived” – aka planned — obvious. Whatever! That was over three decades ago, yet I keep on writing and have finished only one book. “One” book after over 4 decades of writing.
I should get my head examined or get a “real” hobby because it feels like I’m swimming against the current. It’s frustrating and exhausting and…addicting. I can’t give it up. That’s that ugly old devil at work.
Or maybe it’s God telling me not to give up. Never give up. If it’s something deep inside of you. A large part of who you really are. Published or not. Don’t give it up. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Just make the best of it. Now isn’t that a better way of digesting it?
Meanwhile, I’ve got one longer novel and several shorter works in process and I’m going to finish them if it kills me. Or — at my age, until I die, because if anything’s inevitable, it’s that.