The Joys of Not Writing

Well, this is pretty self explanatory I hope.

I can’t write.

I’ve been working on my novel for almost two years and I’m not where I want to be. I have had some mild success in that Everyone who has read/heard portions of it really enjoyed it and at one point I had five agents requesting the full manuscript.

One by one, they all said no. One never responded (rude), one was a form rejection, one said that they enjoyed the story, that the beginning was one of the best opening scenes she had ever read, but overall, the story was too dark and my main character was not quirky enough, and the last rejection was the best one.

Yes, a rejection can be good! Because this agent wrote me a long email telling me what she enjoyed and what she didn’t enjoy, things that can be useful if you need to see how your story is working. They passed because they felt they could not get behind the character.

So even though I felt like crap after all these rejections, like pure shit on a stick, it was actually a pretty great accomplishment for my first novel, and a very rough first draft.

What I take away from that now is that people want to read what I have to say, I just need to organize it a little better.

So after those rejections, I started to revise. but what’s difficult with revising is letting other crap get into your head. Seeing other authors in your genre getting published, reading their books and wondering why them and not you, following the trends and thinking that your book is not going to fit in.

I allowed all of these outside factors to influence my writing and of course, it did not make the story any better. So last month I decided to take a break from writing. I would read, journal and watch netflix (currently jobhunting) but I would NOT work on my novel.

I thought this would be a good option, letting the story rest. But I was getting no inspiration. My living situation is one in which my contact with the outside world is minimal at best, and not by choice. I see the same walls and the same people I live with everyday.

My lack of funds and location in a not so pleasant area make this problem near impossible to overcome.

I don’t know about other people, but when I can’t write, I get frustrated. Angry, irritable, I usually cry a bit because I know the words are locked up inside my mind somewhere but I can’t get them out.

and then when you can’t write, you feel like you’re wasting time, like you’re making the wait for your own destiny even longer than what it has to be.

But most of all, I miss the joy of writing. I miss that feeling when the words take over and your hand doesn’t even feel like it belongs to you anymore because some unseen force is pulling the words from you faster and faster and your hand belongs to it, too.

Writing isn’t like that all the time of course but what makes it fun is those moments where you do get the burst of energy, that feeling that what you’re writing is bigger than you and you’re not entirely in control because it wouldn’t be this easy if it was just you.

But I don’t have that feeling anymore. At all.

It has been months. The last time was probably March or April and I’ve never gone this long in my life without enjoying writing.

My hope is that it’ll come back. I’ll keep trying new ways to bring it back, like blogging. because I think it’s be a super shitty thing if I had amazing thing for 26 years and then it just decided to leave me forever one day.

I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that.

What I know is that I’m a writer. That’s my purpose in life. I might do other things, like work as a waitress, adopt 20 cats, climb Mount Everest, but whatever I else I end up doing, I will ALWAYS be a writer.

 

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