This is your brain.
I was lost, but now I’m found, baby!
I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for a few days. But there’s a reason. I was dangerously close to the abyss. The ‘D’ word. (not that one. the other one). It got really bad. No. Really bad. The doubt trolls were eating my brain. Wanna see what one looks like? Are you sure? Mmmmkay….
Turns out, regardless how prepared you think you are to have your novel handed back to you chopped to bits, it bruises your ego and wilts your muse like a flaccid p….
petunia (what’s wrong with you?)
So there I was, trying to do the revisions as suggested by my editor, but finding myself unable to do so without hyper-analyzing every word to the umpth degree. It got so bad, come Monday morning I found myself paralyzed beyond the ability to blog – bleh! Yesterday, I deleted four – yes four – attempted posts and ended on the couch in tears convinced it was over – I was going to disappoint everyone who believed in me. I began to fantasize my escape route: I would shut down my blog and disappear somewhere far, far away, where no one could ask me, “how’s the book comin’ along?”
I hear Borneo’s nice this time of year. I bet they have tree houses! Yipppeee!
I could get those tattoos I’ve always wanted! Maybe this won’t be so bad?
I wanted to shout out to other writers, “I know this has to be normal…but how the hell do I get out of it?!?” But how could I do that when I couldn’t even pull myself together enough to write a post about it? Last night I was going through emails when I saw I had one from Chuck Wendig’s blog. The title caught my attention: I think I suck and I’m not a real writer. Hmm. That’s
similar exactly what’s in my head. So I read it.
Had I been able to reblog it, I would have. Since I can’t, here’s the link:
Let’s just say, THE M#THER F#CKING TROLLS ARE DEAD.
I can’t possibly do it justice, so you must read it for yourself (it’s hysterical, btw, as is the post prior to it), but my takeaway was (or what I needed to hear):
(1) every novel takes just as long as it needs to be written (2) it’s in the rewrites that you learn how to write well; you must write shit, to learn how to not write shit, and to find gold (3) a real writer writes (4) it took him five years to write Blackbirds. (That last fact took monstrous weight off my shoulders. Oh, and don’t panic. I’m already closing in on year three.)
Proof, you ask? Well, *wipes troll poop off shoulders*
I wrote the new first chapter today! AN ENTIRE CHAPTER, REWRITTEN. EVERY WORD. WOOP!! That’s the most productive I’ve been with revisions since…well, since EVER. My muse is no longer a flaccid p…
pentunia! (really, you’re awful) Now, my beautiful muse is once again a raging, hard, throbbing c…
cattle prod of power, ready to stamp my writer-freak-flag all over those revisions!
*BRING IT ON*
In celebration of getting my mojo back, and actually writing words today (oh, beautiful words! I love you!) I leave you with this:
It’s that vein, right by his briefs. That’s what kills me. Also, if you don’t follow my Pinterest board “who put this board here?”…uh…you should. Link on sidebar. You’re welcome in advance.
And for the guys who follow my blog (or the girls who play for the other team. Btw, congrats on getting Illinois – woop!)
Thanks to everyone who cheers me on, has my back, and picks me up when I fall down. I appreciate you more than you could ever know. OH, and thank you Chuck Wendig. If I wasn’t already married and done having babies, I’d offer to have yours. But that won’t stop me from dry humping your leg should we meet someday. I owe you. BIG.