Ongoing, In the Writing Void...

The phrase is usually applied to assertive boundary setting, to put one's foot down and say "that's it' I've had it this stops here". But there's another interpretation that occurred to me recently and I think is just as important that I'm trying to take to heart.

Enough is enough. As in, be satisfied with what you can do, it really is enough, and you should be able to believe that it is. I've been repeating this in my head but it's been hard to really internalize it.

Back in October, life went so far off the rails I didn't know how long it would take to get some kind of normalcy back. I don't know if what's going on now counts as normal, but it is better. Significantly better.

I have learned a great deal in the past nine months about myself, my child, my family, what we're all capable of. So much has changed and so much is changing still, and amidst all that change, where is the room for the things I wanted to keep? Is it enough that I want to keep them, even if I haven't been able to give them the attention I had to divert out of necessity?

Hey friends. Long time no chat. I guess I should start this off by saying, life is extremely hard and this blog update is kind of a vent. It might be a little bit heavy. Thus, I'm placing it beneath a cut. But... If you're wondering where I've been... Lemme tell ya.

Real life has exploded recently and it's been one little heartbreak after another. I'll spare the details here, but, suffice it to say, as of last week, I had to put everything on hold while my family was in a crisis. Things are starting to level out, but the struggle now, is that my momentum was completely torpedoed in the process.

This isn't an uncommon thing for creatives anywhere. When life gets hectic, chaos abounds, emotional struggles intensify, and priorities change, we have to focus on what's right in front of us. Our energy is better spent on the people we love and the things that need us. But what to do when it's time to get back to it and I feel like I'm lost? What to do when I've forgotten what I'm supposed to be doing with my work? How do I remember what steady work looks and feels like?

It's funny. I've been writing for 22 years and yet, somehow this always happens. If I step away for just a little too long, coming back feels like walking on baby deer legs. I'll sit in front of my work and be filled with the feeling I've forgotten how to do anything at all. That derailment can kill a creative project. I should know, given how many unfinished longform projects I have on AO3.

This isn't fanfiction. This isn't a hobby anymore. This is my dream. My career. I've spent the last five months working my ass off on this book. I finished a first draft for the first time ever. I'm more than halfway through my second draft.

I've come too far, taken this too seriously, to leave it dead in the water.

If only wanting it was all I needed to keep going. Wanting to do something and actually finding the motivation to do it are not the same thing. There are lots of things I want to do. The number I actually do, however, is pretty small. I'm not about to let this book be buried in the graveyard of WIPs.

With all that in mind, I know I need to harness my momentum and pick things up again. Preferably where I left off.

However...

Jumping back in where I left off doesn't work for me. I find I struggle to recall what was supposed to come next, even after looking over my notes. Once I reach a certain level of removal from a project, getting back to it, refreshing myself, and finding the spark to create again isn't a straightforward process.

And you, because you're smart and helpful, might be thinking: "Oh well, then maybe re-read everything you've done and sink back in that way!"

Which, yes. Absolutely. But also, no.

Going back and trying to re-read big chunks of the manuscript thus far would be a massive time sink. And I've already spent a lot of time not writing. While it might refresh my memory, it will also keep me away from the important thing. Progress. Inevitably, any in-depth review of the manuscript would lead to the dreaded "Edit As You Go" spiral I've talked about before. In theory? A smart choice. In practice? Not so much.

I'm not without solutions.

Instead, I've reviewed my notes, re-read the last chapter I completed, and then wrote outline notes again. Re-treading what I've already written in any kind of exhaustive way doesn't really spark the New Creative Momentum I need to keep going. I have to actually start making something new, not just poking at the old, in order to get that ball rolling.

And by ball I mean boulder, because this feels like a Sisyphean task. I get a whole bunch of work done and then I have to start back from the bottom and do it again. I know, eventually, I will no longer be rolling that boulder up the hill, but right now, that's all I'm doing.

The process of writing is one that I love, and whenever I take long breaks, it feels as though I have to find that love again through the genesis of new words, new ideas, new revelations. If you've been following for a while, then you know I already have a proper outline to follow, because I need one to keep me from meandering away from the story I'm trying to tell.

That being said, there's always room for spontaneity.

Counter-intuitive as it might seem, that spontaneity can be manufactured with a little determination and choosing to engage with the work again. A little reading, a little reviewing, a little fresh outlining, a little bit of creative spark. In this process, new ideas can come to form and help shake off the rust that accumulates too damn quickly when taking breaks.

Life never stops. There's no avoiding the momentum of day to day living. Even when in total burnout and unable to function, time marches on. These kinds of derailments can feel like getting flattened under the boulder rolling back down the hill. It's crushing.

But part of taking this seriously as a career path, means finding ways to work through these moments when life gets in the way of creative progress. I can't say that my methodology would work for everyone, but moving forward is the most important thing for me, both when dealing with the life-problems that stopped my writing process, and when getting back to writing.

A few days ago I reviewed things and wrote up seven items to get to as I move forward. A baby roadmap to guide the process of progress. I thought about my characters, their motivations, ideas of how to better weave the various plot threads together, treated the whole thing as if I hadn't touched it before.

The truth is, I did plan these things, just more loosely when doing my re-write outline a while back. Digging into the plot beats and writing up little mini outlines for them has helped me find the tiniest sliver of motivation to get started again. As of today, I finally did. And it felt good. Snatching up the flow will take time, and I have to be patient with myself while I work at it.

And with that in mind, I've taken the time to remind myself that quotas aren't the be all end all of making progress. It's good to have goals and targets, but if they become a flog to beat myself up with, then they're not serving their purpose. Above all, I've come to find I have to lead with being kind to myself about the time I take, especially when my output isn't where I know it can be when I'm really in a groove.

I missed writing. I really did. Getting back to it, even if it's a little clunky right now, feels good.

I ordered myself a hardbound copy of my first draft of my book as a keepsake for myself. This was a major milestone for me. I designed a really simple color block cover, made the back blurb...

And today it arrived. And I was so excited...

Look at it. It's so simple. It was so special. My lil elevator pitch back blurb for the book is there and everything.

And then I opened it.

WHAT. PRAY, TELL, THE FUCK!?

What is this bullet journal nonsense I did not ask for what the fuck is happening. GODDDDDDDDD.

I'm so fucking annoyed.

I have to be honest here, I think trying to do market research and look at what agents are buying right now, asking for, interested in, etc. has been the biggest spirit killer I've encountered in the process of writing.

Getting traditionally published requires an agent. And so, as I've been doing my re-writes, getting this book hammered into a better, more entertaining shape, I've been looking into the market. And it's left me with feelings of inadequacy that feel... unfair. For lack of a better word.

As a queer author, I want to write characters like myself and my queer friends, and I want to do it in the genre I love. I want stories like The Dreseden Files with a queer protagonist. I want to write Sandman Slim, but what if he was bisexual? I just want queerness to exist in an authentic way within the genre that I love most.

But that's not... LGBTQ+ Fiction according to the market. Queerness isn't centered in my book, because it's only a single aspect of the protagonist, his love interest, people around him. They're just alive. And queer. That's it. Because for me, that is the most enjoyable kind of representation. But when I look at the rest of the LGBTQ+ Fiction landscape, well... It's a lot of hanging a lantern on queerness. The queer experience is under a spotlight.

And I don't want to do that. I don't want that to be the thing that defines my book. So I feel it would be disingenuous to present it to agents who are looking for LGBTQ+ Fiction, especially when their wishlists are surrounded by YA/Cozy Romance/Cozy Fantasy desires. When their examples of books their looking for are aimed at a different audience than my intended one, that have completely different goals from my own. Not to mention the reality that most of them are centered on sapphic love. Which is great! But that's not in this book I'm writing, either. (That comes later, I hope...)

Alexander Avila (who is an incredible video essayist, by the way, you should go watch his videos) did a video on Rainbow Capitalism and talked at length about Our Flag Means Death, in which he highlighted that the reason the show worked so well, was because these queer characters simply were. No focus on coming out or queer pain or performative celebration of queerness. They were just people. Because that's who we, as queer folx actually are. People.

And that's what I'm trying to write. There's clearly a lot of other queer folks out there looking for representation and stories like that. Where we simply get to exist as we are in the narratives we love.

But the agents aren't. The market isn't. Not as far as I can tell.

So I tucked that away in the back of my mind and tried to focus on people looking for Urban Fantasy. And found very few Agents with any kind of interest in the genre. Those who do have clients who write Urban Fantasy in the same vein as I do, aren't accepting queries. They're working with the titans in the genre. And goddamn, did I make a mistake trying to write fiction for adults? Everyone wants YA. I don't want to write YA. But man is it a very popular genre umbrella.

It's been frustrating, trying to put together a list of people I'd like to query my book to, when it seems like there's simply no desire within the publishing market for the kind of thing I'm writing. Not queer enough, not a popular enough genre, just... Not enough.

I know that it's hard to get published, but I haven't even started that part of the process yet and I'm already exhausted.

Reality is a black hole, swallowing up my self-esteem, making me feel like there's no place in trad publishing for my work. A barrier between me and the people out there who I know exist, with whom my work would resonate and be appreciated by. People like me. People who want the joy of being able to read the kind of fiction they love from the point of view of someone other than the genre staple jaded, cishet, white guy protagonist.

I don't know what the future holds for my book, but I have worked too hard for too many months now, put off my dream of writing for too many years, to let this beat me down, but it does get hard to feel like it's at all possible when the world I'm trying to break into doesn't appear to want me or have room for me.

It breaks my heart.

And maybe I'm simply not looking in the right places. I've dug into MSWL, QueryTracker, individual Agencies, social media feeds, etc. and found not a single person looking for something like what I'm working on. I'm too adult, not queer enough, there is some romance but it's not a romance book, it's not, not, not, not, not-- enough.

And that sucks. And at some point, I have to accept that it might just be me, being too weird and anxious, being too literal with my interpretations of what people are asking for. I'm adjacent, or maybe I do count and I just can't see it based on what's being presented as examples.

But it's become a total black hole of frustration.

My plan, however, hasn't changed. I'm going to try. And if it doesn't work, then I'll tackle the beast that is Self-Publishing. Which will require funds. A lot of them. I don't know how I'll manage that, yet, but I'm not going to give up just because it feels like there's no place for me. I know that there is.

I just have to wonder if I should put more effort into that route now, just in case. I don't know. It messes with my confidence.

But we keep going. If the only reason you write is in the hopes of making it big, that's never going to be enough to keep you going. I'm doing this because I want to share my stories. I have to. I have to write or I'll go crazy.

Let me regale you with a recounting of a nightmare I had on Monday night...

I found myself wandering the aisle of a Jewel-Osco, bright afternoon sun pouring through the big glass windows in front across the brown and beige scenery. The cramped passages plastered with yellow Sale signage caught my eye. I wanted some orange juice, but couldn't quite find my way there. That's the thing about Dream Jewel-Osco. It's much more difficult to navigate.

It was as I was wandering past the Trix Yogurt, a product that hasn't been on shelves since I was a child, that I was struck by that horrible, gut twisting need to use the bathroom. Right then and there. And so the Dream Jewel-Osco navigation was no longer an easy meander, but a desperate adventure. My destination? The one place no one wants to poop.

A public bathroom.

Listen, I love writing. I really do. But refining ideas and distilling the messiness of a first draft into something better, more coherent, more enjoyable-- It's a killing my darlings by 1,000 cuts.

In my first draft, the first five chapters alone were 15k. Not exactly ideal. As of this afternoon, I've started on my re-write for chapter 8 and finally hit that 15k mark. And the bonkers thing here is that there are two entirely new chapters that weren't there before and the word count economy is still better.

This is what everyone means when they say "you can make it good later" but what I didn't know at the time, because I've never done this Properly before, is that making something "good later" doesn't mean everything was bad to begin with.

A lot of the things that I've had to cut from my manuscript so far were... Fine. Some of it fun, flavorful text that I liked. Cutting it away sucks unwashed ass. The thing about these sections that I've hacked off, is that they committed the singular sin of... not doing anything for the story.

Maybe they were interesting in a character study slice of life way. Maybe there were lines that could, in a vacuum, be great, but when taking a step back and looking at them objectively... They were taking up space I needed to give to something more important. Something that serves more purpose. Something that makes the story itself, better.

I have so many versions of my manuscript saved at this point I've started to lose track. I think it's 11. And then there's the print version I've slashed at with highlighters and pens. And even when I did my initial developmental editing read... I was still more generous with what I'd already written than I know I need to be.

Seeing the big picture and knowing what my story lacks has allowed me to see that some things just don't... matter. Like I want them to. The purpose I thought they served isn't the best way to do so. And these little scenes are taking up space that prevents more important relationships from developing, having room to breathe, to be seen properly on the page, so that the emotional payoff lands right when time comes for the climax.

By Chapter 8 in my first draft, I spent 21,000+ words not letting the reader see what Grant and his best friend Charlie are like together. Not giving the relationship between Grant and his sister Hope a chance to really be seen. Not taking the time to foreshadow the big moments properly.

But now, I've done that in 15,000 words and the story is better for it. I'm not wasting my reader's time with superfluous descriptions or interactions with minor characters that don't mean anything in the long run.

No. I don't need to spend a full page and a half on Grant doing his job and interacting with his boss. That shit doesn't actually matter. What I need is for Grant and Hope to have a heart to heart about Grant's decision to go no contact with their parents. What I need is for Grant and Charlie to laugh together about Charlie's hobbies. What I need is for the important things in Grant's life to be established in a way that people can connect to.

What the hell was I doing before?

Nothing bad. Just... Not the right thing.

It's painful to think about something I spent months writing being Bad. And I'm coming to learn that it's less about "the first draft is bad" and it's more like... "The first draft isn't right." The writing itself isn't bad. It just hasn't been refined into what the story needs. And I couldn't know what it needed until I'd already done it Wrong. Not bad. Just... Incorrect. Perfectly fine, but not right.

It feels like growing pains.

It sucks. But it's also... A little bit cathartic. Cleansing discomfort. Shedding the things that were holding me back to reach for the ones that will propel me forward.

It's very weird, to be so critical of my work in this way. I had a brief period of feeling really crummy about myself. But now I'm yo-yoing between excitement about the refinement of a story I want to tell, and exhausted frustration because goddamnit I have to write this whole thing again!? The elements I'm adding that make it more cohesive, better paced, more interesting? Those have me bouncing with anticipation.

At the other end of the spectrum it's a slog to look at my first draft and go "Ugh nope. That just needs to go." It's almost like building resentment for past me for being so long winded and clumsy. But it's also part of the learning process. And it'll get easier. My next first draft will be better for what I've learned this time around. And I'll learn new things when tearing it apart to get at the meat of what needs to be there.

It's a never ending process and the only way to learn is by doing.

As of last night, I officially completed my first major editing pass of my manuscript. In the process, I learned some things. Many good things, but also... some not so pleasant things.

Imposter Syndrome is a weird and difficult thing to overcome. I've experienced ebbs and flows as I've tried to change my perspective of myself. Sometimes, I feel like I'm working hard, that what I'm doing is real and valid and that I have every right to be doing it. That I should be taken seriously. But then there are moments where I find myself questioning everything.

Have I deluded myself into thinking I can do this? That I should? That I'm talented enough? That I've honed my skills enough?

What makes my work worthy of being read? Let alone sold for money? Am I getting my hopes up for nothing?

I'm harder on myself than I need to be, and probably harder than any Literary Agent will ever be. I'm not scared of criticism. Especially from peers or professionals. I'm scared me me. I'm scared of my flaws. And that fear is fuel for the imposter syndrome that makes me wonder if I'm wasting my time.

Am I getting my hopes up for nothing?

Man.

Being an artist fucking sucks.

It's also the best thing I've ever done and the only thing I ever want to do.

My child is six, soon to be seven, and he wants to do all kinds of artwork. He draws and paints and sculpts and crafts with recycled scraps. He loves making things. And sometimes those things don't work out. He's very stubborn and wants to figure things out on his own, rarely accepting help unless pushed to, and like most six year olds... He's prone to frustration.

Now and then, he gets upset because the thing he wants to draw doesn't look real enough. It doesn't look right. He'll stomp and grumble and say "I can never get this to look right! I'm just never gonna be good at it!" often enough that I'm getting tired of the conversation.

I told my kiddo this:

"Frustration is a natural part of the process. You're going to get frustrated when trying to make things. You have to practice and make a lot of stuff you don't like in order to learn. You have to learn to deal with that frustration, it's always going to be there."

Maybe that seems kind of harsh to say to a child, but I don't think it's fair to give him platitudes and vague encouragement when he's upset anymore. There's only so many times I can say "Man, that's rough. I get it. But if you keep practicing you'll get better!" before it loses any meaning for him. It's because he's passionate and cares that I'm honest.

"Even when you get better, you'll still get frustrated and make things you don't like. But you learn from those mistakes. You can use them to figure out what to do better next time. You have to practice and be okay with not making things perfect the first time."

He uh... He hates this answer, by the way.

And honestly, so do I.

I think most creatives do. When we think about the reality of how hard-baked frustration and dissatisfaction are in the process of creating things, it's easy to spiral into self-doubt. I see other writers and artists talk about it often. And those dual curves of perception vs skill are always ebbing and flowing in opposition to each other.

I went into writing this book at a point when my perception and skill levels were even. But coming out the other side of finishing my first draft and doing my first revision pass, reading the whole damn thing with a critical eye, picking my own work apart, the perception I have of my own work has spiked above my skill level.

It's disheartening to see so many flaws in my own work. I knew I would, because I was looking for those flaws. If I don't find them, I can't fix them. I don't want to put a book out into the world that I don't feel proud of. I'm proud of myself for what I've done so far, but the high of completing my first draft wore off weeks ago.

I don't feel good enough. I feel like I'm playing at being a "real writer" and that sucks. I can talk to myself logically again and again about this. I can look at other published works that have problems, lack polish, and are in the same or a lesser caliber than what I see in my own work, but it doesn't soothe the feeling of being a pretender.

When I got up this morning I zoned out for a bit and tried to wrap my head around this whole mess.

Yesterday evening, after I finished my revision pass, my husband popped into the bedroom. I told him the manuscript had a lot of problems I needed to fix. He cracked a joke "Nah. It's good enough. Send it to print!" and I groaned. "Noooo. It's not good enough."

He chuckled and said "Hey, Stephanie Meyer got published" and I huffed. I puffed. I said "I don't want to be Stephanie Meyer. I'd rather be Jim Butcher. But I want to be like... The Anne Rice of Urban Horror Fantasy."

He gave me this little bewildered smirk and said "I think Anne Rice is the Anne Rice of Urban Fantasy."

In my personal opinion, her books always read more like Literary Fantasy and Historical Fiction to me. Sometimes. (Beauty Series who?) But. My point was... Yeah. Of course I want to write things that are culturally relevant. I want to have a cult following. I want to write within a world I made, with lots of interconnected stories about different people, and for my books to mean something to people even after I pass away.

And what artist doesn't want that?

I circled the drain last night. I circled it again this morning.

Do I deserve that? Am I good enough? Will I ever be good enough?

There's really only one way to find out or get there.

The solution is to keep writing.

It's like I told my kiddo. Frustration is part of the process. Making things you don't like is part of getting better. Part of learning. You have to keep going. I have to keep going. Keep trying. Press forward, and write my way out of imposter syndrome.