My @reallyactuallyapoet friend sent me information this evening. Information I was excited about. Jazzed. Really. I was pumped to spend my evening (with cake and ice cream and tea – because I can’t self medicate with liquor just yet) going through old flash fiction to find something to work with for a lit mag looking for submissions.
Then I sat down, tea and sugar close at hand, to survey and I became increasingly more uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to the point of considering retreat, of damn near turning the laptop off and going to bed.
Is it that I truly hate re-reading and editing old pieces, or is it that I would prefer to listen to the husky drawl of my Inner Critic? I kind of think it’s the latter. I don’t love editing, and, to be honest, I’m not really very good at it (and never have been). But that’s a shit excuse not to try, isn’t it?
I think the reason I want to tuck tail and run is because I’m afraid I might actually succeed some day. I’m completely prepared for rejection, because that’s a song and dance I know by heart. I’m okay to be told no. I want to be told no. If I’m told no, I can breathe a sigh of “I told you so” relief and just quit.
I’m an exceptional quitter.
But what if that voice is wrong? What if what I’ve been told my whole life is wrong? What if what I’ve been telling myself my whole life is wrong?
What if I did it? What if I picked something, worked it up, submitted it and was accepted for publication? Shit, what if I picked something, worked it up, submitted it and was rejected? At least I would have tried. Even assuming that I’d fail, at least I would have tried.
I don’t try. I’ve never tried. I just sit here, fidget nervously with this goal of writing, and do sweet fuck all with it. I blog here, I blog there, and I’m trying to break ground on a big project, but I take exactly none of it seriously. I was sourced out and asked to blog there due wholly because of what I’ve written here, but I still can’t call myself a writer. (Shit folks, I have a paid gig writing promotional material for a local indie and I can’t call myself a writer.)
I think I need to try. I need to stop with this whiny, self-deprecating “I can’t write” shit and try. Maybe I’m right, maybe I’ll fail miserably. Maybe I’m wrong and they’re right, maybe I’ll get a yes or two. Can’t know until I’ve put myself out there, right.
Fuck. I may have just talked myself into editing.
Goddammit @reallyactuallyapoet. Look at the time I’ve wasted trying to figure it out via blogging. If ever there was a day* I needed a rye/rum/gin….
*Seriously though. You should have seen the tantrums I witnessed today. Epic. Like, biblical shit. I’m exhausted having watched that.