It's hard for me to sum up my life this last month in just a few representative paragraphs. I've been writing as much as I can, as always. I haven't been reading or studying style as much as I should.
I finished Ginger Snaps: The Feral Bond, or the current draft of it, and I've decided to redraft it for several reasons. Foremost, is to teach myself more about writing, learn how to shape the best book I can out of it. The fact is, today's publishing industry leaves little room for error for authors, so I better have things together when I submit my first commercial work because the way it is today, if your first book doesn't sell, publishers are not going to want to touch you again. There was a time when you were "allowed to fail." You were given three books to begin to turn a profit. That's no longer the case. With the Internet, every publisher, and in fact, the general public, can see how well your book is selling, or how badly it's not selling.
I've had days of depression days of anxiety this last month as I haven't seen in a year. I've felt desires, and longings. I've felt disillusioned with old ties, realizing how little I've gotten out of them, and I've felt loneliness.
I've been seeking out new connections. I'm impatient. I feel left out of life right now.
Yes, sometimes your life's narrative just doesn't come together as a story. It just keeps is shapeless randomness no matter how you think of it. When that happens, how can you ever choose what's most important to write?
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