Five Stages of (Writer’s) Grief …

Whenever I get my manuscript back from my editor-friend, I go through the five stages of grief.

Step 1- Denial: This isn’t so bad, my book is pretty good. I read it and re-read it multiple times already, what could possibly be wrong with it? Pshhh! This’ll be a piece of cake!

Step 2- Anger: I hate this stupid thing! Why did I think I could write anyway? Did I really use that word so many times? I’m going to burn this book! At least it would keep me warm in the winter!

Step 3- Bargaining: Next time I will be better, I swear! I will keep that thesaurus within arms reach, I can change! Please don’t be like this! That’s what re-writes are for, right??

Step 4- Depression: *Sobbing uncontrollably* My book sucks! It’s the worst string of words put to paper since the beginning of time! Next to this, ‘50 Shades of Grey’ looks like Shakespeare! Why did I ever think I could do this! I actually thought people might want to rest their eye sockets on this piece of garbage?

Step 5- Acceptance: Well, maybe it’s not worse than 50 Shades… Perhaps it’s even readable. Now that it’s polished, it may actually shine in parts! Someone out there may enjoy it. There is hope after all!!

2012 was…

…a good year. It was the year I finished and published my first book and wrote my second. It was the year I got my first good review, and my first not-so-good review. I learned that, no matter how hard you try, you can’t please everyone— and shouldn’t try to. 2012 was the year I lost a brother, but gained a backbone. A little one at least… It was a year where I almost got away with not being sick, until Mother Nature was all like ‘Oh no you don’t!’ and struck with a vengeance. 2012 was the year I finally said goodbye to super skinny Casey, the end of an era. 2012 was the year the world did not end, for better or worse, depends on the day I had. The Walking Dead finally became good. Glee is bearable again. The Hobbit, Avengers, Game of Thrones met and or exceeded my expectations. Snow White and the Huntsman did not (Charlize Theron as the evil queen was amazing though). 2012 was a year for fashion and Pinterest, I like to think they have something to do with one another. And even though nothing exciting happened, 2012 was still a good year.

Happy New Years! And may 2013 be just as good or better!

Another…

… All nighter. Writing. Manic writing. I haven’t been in a writing mood lately. Lacking inspiration. It finally hit, and I am on a roll. It’s hard to stop once it hits. You never know when you are going to get it back again!

Hence the late nights and lack of sleep.

Oh well…

The life of a writer.

I feel like…

… whenever I ask someone to read my story, I should say, “It’s not as terrible as you think it is. I promise.”

I know that look in their eyes, the slight hesitance. Everyone wants to be a writer. I mean, who wouldn’t? But I promise that I have spent a least a little bit of time practicing and refining my skill, and I would like to believe I have a little bit of talent for it!

But there is always a stigma for first time writers, hobby writers, and even worse: friends who want to be writers.

Oh well. I suppose it’s just something I will have to get used to…

Human curiosity is…

…endless.

Recently, I took my father to visit the Mummies of the World exhibit. Featuring, you guessed it, mummies from all over the world. I have a love of history, especially the human element of it, and while a little morbid,  I found the experience to be fascinating.

But not just for the apparent reason that they are mummies.

There was a question raised in the exhibit: Who were they? Giving these mummies a more human face than just the dried up shriveled horror monster or side show curiosity they usually are. These were real people once, just like you and I, something that’s easily forgotten. Scientists have gone through painstaking research and study to appease that one little human emotion known as curiosity, even going as far to tell what these people’s diets were based on a hair sample analysis.

And as I looked at the mummies, the people, from different continents, I started thinking of something I found even more intriguing. No matter how different their culture, how far apart they were in space and time, they still all had the same human needs. For clothing and cloth, for religion as a way to explain the world around them, the desire to adorn themselves with jewelry and tattoos and hair braids. The need and desire for love and family and power, and so much more. For curiosity. So many television shows are made on the monoliths and the temples, that I think the little stuff gets lost. The simple stuff, the human stuff.

Not that I don’t find that interesting. I do wholeheartedly. I think some of the things humans are capable of building are truly amazing. But so are the little things. Like jewelry so fine it could be sold today, or stone or wood carved so straight with such simple tools. Linen and cloth that looks like it could have just been bought at the local fabric store. The little things, that even today we take for granted, and we forget the simple human ingenuity behind it all. Like who was the first person that thought of baking bread? That thought to put those specific ingredients and processes together? Was it simply trial and error over many years, a happy accident?

Thanks to modern science, and human curiosity, we are closer than ever before to learning how these people lived and did what they did. But I wonder, do we really need to look that far?

I have…

… let my ego get the best of me. Convinced that my story was good enough. But it’s not. It will never be, at least not for my tastes. I am looking at my work with a new fierce determination, one that will hopefully make it better, stronger, feel more in depth and complete.

I will never be one of the great writers, but I will at least strive to become good. This is my goal.

I will never stop learning.

I will keep improving.

And most importantly of all: I will not give up.

I am having…

… a mini freakout.

As the day of my self publishing venture draws nearer, they come with more frequency. Pretty soon I will need to keep a brown paper bag next to my bed.

I worry. I am a worrier by nature. I try not to be. I am usually pretty easygoing. But deep down and behind closed doors my true colors shine. Knots wring in my stomach, knuckles are cracked for the umpteenth time, sleep is all too hard to come by.

It comes and goes though. Sometimes I think my book will do well, others-like now- I worry that it will bomb. Why do I care? I shouldn’t really. But I do. I want people to like what I wrote. I want my book to do well. I finally found something that I like to do, and I would hate to be a miserable failure at it.

I worry all the time that my writing isn’t good enough. That it seems too amateurish. That the dialogue isn’t fleshed out enough, or that the story is just down right silly.

For who am I to try and write a book? Writing is for the academics, the artists, the poets. The professionals  Not someone like me.

But I’ll persevere. I have come this far, and it is something that I love doing.

Self esteem be damned.