It’s been months since I was able to write anything without wanting to delete it all.
All of it. Literally every word I’ve written and published in the last two years.
Naturally, my first two books have not been spared and I do not criticize them lightly. I lash out about my writing worse than anyone else could, but I usually bounce back once it’s out of my system. My husband is actually reading the first one (finally) and I’ve asked him to tell me every error he finds … because I’m neurotic. Because one 1-star review made me rethink trying to do this. Because I allow other people and their ability to publish two, three, and four books a year to give me anxious thoughts and runaway fear that I will never succeed. What’s success anyway?
I won’t blame the kids this time (though they do take up so much of my time and I’m fucking exhausted). The blame is on me.
I want these characters to be rowdy and fun and have mind-blowing quadruple-orgasm-would-never-happen-in-real-life sex, and they just … aren’t. I want them to behave like other characters who are probably way more popular, and they simply … won’t. He wants to take his time with her. He wants to get to know her while falling in love with every.single.detail. of her life. The good and the bad. She wants him to just get over himself and get on with the fun parts because it’s already been a little bit fun. A little bit scary, too, because feelings are happening. His inability to separate himself from his stupid master plan is frustrating to them and to me because, damn it, they’ve already deviated from the plan and now he’s fucking it up. It’s supposed to be easy now.
At 30,000 words into the third novel it’s supposed to be easier.
Isn’t it? After all, they’re just words.