Hey, I have a real website!
No, you can't see it, because I won't tell you where it is. Yet.
I will be moving my blog there as well as launching a pretty big project which will hopefully give people a better reason to visit the site than my mindless yammerings.
In the meantime, let's keep it up with mindless yammerings!
I haven't been employed for just over a year now. I made the decision, but it was easy to go through with it as my employer was reducing hours to the point that I only broke even on gas, driving to work for three hours a week.
Still, I chose to commit myself to this writing career. I'm strongly resisting using quotation marks around career.
That's the problem.
I don't take myself seriously as a writer, or even as a professional in general. Sure, I CAN be professional, but I have trouble picturing anyone letting me anymore. Yes, I CAN write at an acceptable -- even occasionally desirable -- level, but who would give a crap?
It's imposter syndrome without actually having the initial exposure.
The way I see imposter syndrome is you freak out because now that you're in the pro room, they're going to realize you're a fake and oust you, shun you, ostracize you for deceiving them.
I can't even get to that point, because I talk myself out of even peeking into the door. Everyone will know that I'm some chump that doesn't fit in and has no place here, so there is no reason to finish this.
Many days, I can't see a future where I'm welcomed into the publishing world. I think that's the equivalent to having no hope.
I've written three or four flash fiction pieces that I meant to post and just didn't get to it, because, y'know, whatever. I'm waffling on how to approach this novella series despite the deadline I set coming up fast. I talk myself out of tweeting, for crying out loud. If I can't squeeze out 140 characters without psyching myself out, then I think I'm in trouble.
I am fighting myself about whether to post this or not.
Obviously, I did, as you're reading it, but it was a struggle (he wrote prospectively, hoping he would, in fact, publish this).
Interaction time: How, dear reader, do you drag yourself out of the no-hope-mope (I should trademark that) (actually, no, I should not)?
How do you beat those times when self-doubt topples progress?
I am well aware of the philosophy which says "Give yourself permission to suck." Don't clench, just let whatever fall onto the page and fix it later.
That's a great idea.
I just can't seem to do it.
Heidi tells me that what I actually put on the page is the equivalent of a third draft because I chew it over so much before letting myself write it. That is not very efficient, and it eventually leaves me in a infinite loop of existential crisis and self-doubt.
Posting this is step one on the road to recovery.
I've worn the track out on these first few steps pacing back and forth. You might notice a bit of dried blood on this side of that first hurdle.