So I think that was full rejection #3 for manuscript #2. I’m pretty down because this agent really liked my last manuscript and had a lot of constructive feedback when they passed. I thought manuscript #2 would work but…it didn’t.
I have maybe 3 more fulls out but I’m honestly thinking everyone will pass in the next few weeks or just never get back to me at all.
Being a writer is such a shitty thing. It’s the only thing I’m good at that I actually give a shit about and I can’t even get it right. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t enjoy it anymore. When I sit down to write, all I think about is “is this trending? will agents like this?”
I feel pressure to achieve as much as possible as soon as possible but it’s hard to write when you’re worried about how you’re going to support yourself, what’s going to happen to you, are you going to have a home, are you going to have a car, are you going to have a family, are you going to be alone.
I found an old story of mine in my room. It was called “Diet Soda” and I wrote it when I was 13 years old for a contest (it was about a girl whose best friend ditches her to become popular and develops an eating disorder). I expected to cringe while reading it but I kept thinking to myself, Hey, this is actually pretty good! Obviously there’s hella typos and no formatting whatsoever, but it was good.
It made me feel good to see how far I’ve come as a writer but to know that I was pretty good even before the MFA and before any writing classes, that made me feel happy. Then I got to the dramatic scenes of the book where a character gets his head chopped off with some garden shears. I laughed so hard because the story was funny in places and just overly dramatic in others, which is still kind of my style.
How do you go back to who you were before you realized what other people thought sort of does matter? How do I give myself permission to write poorly, to write just for me?
Being a long time player of the game of poverty, gathering as much success as quickly as possible has always felt like common sense to me. You could die tomorrow, you need to get/do as much as you can while you have the time. But what if your life isn’t just one destiny? What if you’re supposed to have a condo in Vegas with 3 dogs and a lizard and a full time job as an ice cream truck driver? You can’t start with nothing and do everything at once. Maybe this time in my life is supposed to be spent on me and my sanity. Maybe the book doesn’t come until I’m 30 or 35. And all the pressure I’m putting on myself now is for something that’s not quite ready for me yet.