Behold the obligatory Writer Angst Post.
Watch the Writer enter into a phase of self doubt and the usual woe is me ow my ego.
I’m a lying ass liar.
What’s really hard right now are the nice feedback we love the writing but story didn’t work for us for reasons rejections.
Also several of the zines I’ve submitted to that were updating regularly have stopped suddenly and yes I know this is paranoia but I get that creeping feeling that I’ve gone and given them something they hated so much they want to close up shop forever.
I am the literary ruiner.
I’m having that moment where I am so nervous about everything. My judgement. My confidence in my ability to read a magazine and think YES my words belong here.
I can’t stand myself right now.
So I think I’m going to take it a little easy.
Write some fun things.
Also I found this via the Rumpus but it generates a rejection. Fun to play with.
I keep reminding myself that while no, some of the places I’ve submitted to love my writing but not enough to publish it I’m still okay. No one is saying things like this (from my rejection generator I chose the DESTROY option)
I regret to say that we cannot use the piece you have submitted. There are many potential reasons for this: we are looking for very particular subject matter; we are overstocked right now; we were drunk when we read it. This is not a judgment of you. It does not mean you are a bad writer.
Of course, you probably are a bad writer. You’re probably so bad you can’t finish this sentence: “My mama wears __________.” The vast majority of people who think of themselves as writers are actually bad writers. They just don’t know it. Nonetheless, this one rejection doesn’t necessarily mean that you are bad. But probably you are.
And the odds are that you are immoral and lazy as well. We don’t mean to be harsh. We’re talking about the percentages here.
So there’s that.
I think that’s all. Part of my problem here is that I am conflating my literary rejections with some other serious shit going on in my life and I’m freaking out.
So I need to calm my shit down. I need to write said shit down.
I need to believe that all of the crazy stress in my life is going to percolate something beautiful. I need to believe that I will be okay.
I will be okay.
I think that’s all. I need to write things and feed myself.