I’m full of angst today.
I have been jotting down little bits of fiction. I am worried that the time I took to finish V2.0 did something averse to my fiction. This particular angst fueled by the fact that nobody likes my flash fiction but me.
Add in a lot of good rejections, the ones that say good writing/powerful writing but not for us.
I’m having not good enough feels.
These angsts are also fucking with my sleepy ambition to finish my novella. I have many notes and about 2000 words of it written. And then I stop. I think about what if I lose what little momentum/being known I have, will I have to start the fuck over?
I’ve been reading some really great chapbooks and novellas.
Who the fuck would buy mine?
As new writing opportunities come in,I get scared that the editors who believe in me will be disappointed.
I’m feeling stuck in a little fear bubble.
What if the last two years were as good as I get?
But really the thing that freezes my fingers is the idea that I won’t be able to live up to my own expectations of my work.
I work so hard I don’t want to disappoint myself.
My ambitions have moved from being publication based to craft based. I want to make my ideas live and sometimes I am very disappointed that I can’t do it the way I want it.
I hope my feels are hormonal and I will stop being so angsty.
I keep hearing Lil Jon yelling in my head,
YOU SCARED MOTHA FUCKA YOU SCARED
From one of my favorite Ice Cube Songs Go To Church.
Maybe I’m feeling a bit too tender to get gangster with myself as I usually do.
Maybe I should calm my shit down for a minute. Write some writer business emails and then hide in a bubble of background noise and just fucking write.
Write like a mother fucker.
Write the stories.
Stop feeling some type of way self. Make a pot of tea, eat your sushi and fucking write.
Take a deep breath.
Also before I forget my new piece is up at Luna Luna. The second part of my series addressing White Ladies.