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reenkathinking about your worth as a writer is a deadly thing. completely deadly. you start off writing for yourself, and you don't -care-, just don't care about anyone else, because writing is your breath and your blood and you would die without it. you read and you write and you think, and you don't even need to talk. it's not communication and it's not masturbation, it's something higher and deeper inside you, it's your identity, and there is no judging that.
people tell you you're good, oh, keep writing-- or they don't understand at all-- or they blink at you and smile, but it doesn't matter. you aren't talking to them. you aren't thinking of them. you aren't even thinking about yourself, and that's the beauty of it. but you're just fooling yourself.
and then, this. you realize you're one of many. what is intensely, most truly yours is a gift shared by many. and sometimes they'll get noticed and sometimes you will, but it's just like anything else in relationships: an ebb and flow, a combination of luck and skill and persistence. you start thinking of your writing as a skill, as a representation of yourself, as a public identity instead of a private revelation. and if it's a skill, you can measure it-- or rather, others can measure it. oh, it's good to have self-esteem, but the point is, in the end, what do they think.
and you learn not to care what most people think, you narrow it down. you just want to know what they think, the other people with the gift, the people you begin to look up to. before, it was separate. there was you in public and there was what you did alone, where there were no critics except the ones inside your head. and that was okay, you were used to them. and now the critic is -still- mostly inside your head, except you wonder. you are one of them now. one of the writers. not just a reader anymore. and it's what you've always wanted, isn't it? except you're not so sure. yes, of course it is. and this isn't even a pink slip from random house. this is nothing.
so okay, you have a very limited audience. you're just not ready yet. you're not good enough yet. you always knew it. you have to improve. work harder! look at you, you can't even use more than 2-3 characters in a story. and your command of plot-- what plot? are you writing for them or for you? and if it's for you, why do you feel bad that it's not what they want? is it even what -you- want? and you know it's not, not always. maybe if you wrote what you really wanted, you would be read more. and is it that you want to be read, or told that you are read? or is it that you want them to read? and why? they have their own tastes, and if they don't mesh with you, it's nobody's fault. and you're not even as good as you can be. and so ok, you're 24 and how long is it going to take, anyway, but you're so lazy, you know that. you're lazy and you don't work hard enough and you expect that "talent" they talked about when you were nine to still outrun performance, and it doesn't, does it.
maybe this is it, you think. maybe this is what you needed. an end to the apathy. you thought you had time, plenty of time. you could submit when you're ready. you don't have to really try yet. you could just keep going as you are. and if one person reads or none or a hundred, it doesn't matter yet, because you're not ready. but you're never going to be ready. you're an idiot. this is all that matters to you, and look at you, you're doing it all the time and pretending this is just like when you were 15 and it was just you. so this is fandom and you're not really -writing-, this is just. just what? what are you doing, anyway? 25 in two months and what are you doing with this? you want to be better: better how? better when? what audience are you looking for?
and if you are serious, then don't pretend you aren't. and you are competitive, don't pretend you aren't. you pass the time, but pretend that time isn't passing. but it is, isn't it. it's passing and you want to -be- somewhere, to have arrived. and well, you have. you've arrived somewhere, haven't you. maybe by the time you're 40 you will have published a book of stupid obscure fantasy stories, and you'll hug it to bed or something.
but no. you want to be one of them. you want this to matter to people. you want, you want. you want to fly as high as anyone could. not because you're ambitious (are you ambitious? are you afraid? what is it?), but maybe because you want to dream unfettered. you need to reach as much as anyone can reach, because you always thought you could-- because in your mind you could.
don't pretend you want to shut up because you don't. you want to be louder, don't you. come on, admit it. you want to climb the highest mountain and speak the truth someday, admit it. because you think you can, and you haven't tried, really, so you don't know you can't. and maybe you can, right? what if you can?
you don't really know the difference sometimes, between dreams and reality. but isn't that something you can use? you say you like that. you think you can make dreams reality, somehow. that was your dream. or maybe you could just write about it. maybe you can just do everything you want to, because you haven't tried wanting it hard enough. maybe those stories are just waiting for you. maybe those stories are yours.
people tell you you're good, oh, keep writing-- or they don't understand at all-- or they blink at you and smile, but it doesn't matter. you aren't talking to them. you aren't thinking of them. you aren't even thinking about yourself, and that's the beauty of it. but you're just fooling yourself.
and then, this. you realize you're one of many. what is intensely, most truly yours is a gift shared by many. and sometimes they'll get noticed and sometimes you will, but it's just like anything else in relationships: an ebb and flow, a combination of luck and skill and persistence. you start thinking of your writing as a skill, as a representation of yourself, as a public identity instead of a private revelation. and if it's a skill, you can measure it-- or rather, others can measure it. oh, it's good to have self-esteem, but the point is, in the end, what do they think.
and you learn not to care what most people think, you narrow it down. you just want to know what they think, the other people with the gift, the people you begin to look up to. before, it was separate. there was you in public and there was what you did alone, where there were no critics except the ones inside your head. and that was okay, you were used to them. and now the critic is -still- mostly inside your head, except you wonder. you are one of them now. one of the writers. not just a reader anymore. and it's what you've always wanted, isn't it? except you're not so sure. yes, of course it is. and this isn't even a pink slip from random house. this is nothing.
so okay, you have a very limited audience. you're just not ready yet. you're not good enough yet. you always knew it. you have to improve. work harder! look at you, you can't even use more than 2-3 characters in a story. and your command of plot-- what plot? are you writing for them or for you? and if it's for you, why do you feel bad that it's not what they want? is it even what -you- want? and you know it's not, not always. maybe if you wrote what you really wanted, you would be read more. and is it that you want to be read, or told that you are read? or is it that you want them to read? and why? they have their own tastes, and if they don't mesh with you, it's nobody's fault. and you're not even as good as you can be. and so ok, you're 24 and how long is it going to take, anyway, but you're so lazy, you know that. you're lazy and you don't work hard enough and you expect that "talent" they talked about when you were nine to still outrun performance, and it doesn't, does it.
maybe this is it, you think. maybe this is what you needed. an end to the apathy. you thought you had time, plenty of time. you could submit when you're ready. you don't have to really try yet. you could just keep going as you are. and if one person reads or none or a hundred, it doesn't matter yet, because you're not ready. but you're never going to be ready. you're an idiot. this is all that matters to you, and look at you, you're doing it all the time and pretending this is just like when you were 15 and it was just you. so this is fandom and you're not really -writing-, this is just. just what? what are you doing, anyway? 25 in two months and what are you doing with this? you want to be better: better how? better when? what audience are you looking for?
and if you are serious, then don't pretend you aren't. and you are competitive, don't pretend you aren't. you pass the time, but pretend that time isn't passing. but it is, isn't it. it's passing and you want to -be- somewhere, to have arrived. and well, you have. you've arrived somewhere, haven't you. maybe by the time you're 40 you will have published a book of stupid obscure fantasy stories, and you'll hug it to bed or something.
but no. you want to be one of them. you want this to matter to people. you want, you want. you want to fly as high as anyone could. not because you're ambitious (are you ambitious? are you afraid? what is it?), but maybe because you want to dream unfettered. you need to reach as much as anyone can reach, because you always thought you could-- because in your mind you could.
don't pretend you want to shut up because you don't. you want to be louder, don't you. come on, admit it. you want to climb the highest mountain and speak the truth someday, admit it. because you think you can, and you haven't tried, really, so you don't know you can't. and maybe you can, right? what if you can?
you don't really know the difference sometimes, between dreams and reality. but isn't that something you can use? you say you like that. you think you can make dreams reality, somehow. that was your dream. or maybe you could just write about it. maybe you can just do everything you want to, because you haven't tried wanting it hard enough. maybe those stories are just waiting for you. maybe those stories are yours.
