Those of you who read my last post will recall how hilarious and awesome my parents are.
Those of you who follow me on twitter will know the consequences to this awesomeness.
You see, my parents never wanted me to be a writer. They warned me that I wouldn't make money, that I should get a "real job", that my writing wasn’t good enough to be published. Tonight, my dad suggested I try self-publishing because it’s been "ages" and I still haven’t found an agent. When I said these things take time, he just gave a cynical "hmm".
The thing is, there have been times when I’ve wanted to quit. Sometimes this crazy idea’s lasted a whole hour. I’d get rejected from something important and I’d sob and tell myself all these horrible things that would have any psychologist put me on some kind of anti-depressant. But I let myself feel down. I tell myself I’m awful and disgraceful and I’ll never be a real writer. I cry until I’m bored of crying. Then I sigh. Then I get up. Then I start all over again.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? If you’re like me, if you’re really like me, you can’t stop writing. Even when you want to. You leave a story idea festering for a week, maybe a month, and suddenly your fingers are just itching to get typing again, and it builds and builds and builds until it explodes into a story, and voila! Another manuscript to love and edit and have critiqued and send out to agents.
Some people never get published. The odds of an agent AND a publisher loving your story enough to take it on are astronomical if you think about it too much (don’t, it’ll give you a headache). But I will literally die trying if I have to, because I can’t stop the ideas or the passion or the eternal need to get my story onto paper.
I. Can’t. Stop.