I probably should be writing this over on Escaping the Inkwell, but I’m going to be utterly lazy since this post is about utter crap. Seems befitting. Though I feel I should say ‘utter rubbish’ instead as it’s so much more polite and I’ve been reading British things. (How did I not know that Persephone Biannually was so interesting? I have about 8 different ones!)
Moving on. So last week I ‘finished’ my short story about jars of hearts, lipstick, et cetera. See the post here. I was so wired to finish it and for those first few hours, even though I knew that it was going to need serious editing, I was quite thrilled with it.
Then the reality set in. Or maybe it’s writer’s reality, or whatever you want to call it. Anyways, there I was the next morning going, “this thing is terrible! it’s crap. There is no way I could ever hope to submit this to a literary magazine (because yes, I am considering it). I should just toss the whole thing in the garbage and start over.”
Never mind that I wrote the whole thing out longhand with purple ink (new fountain pen and ink. If I have the inclination I shall write a review on the Lamy Vista which has become a favorite pen!) Never mind that I have told my sister she can read it when I’m done. Never mind that I was quite hopeful of it.
Now is it really that horrible? Honestly, I don’t know because I’m looking at it through my eyes. No doubt it needs a lot of work. Heck, in just the first two paragraphs I have already added a bunch of things I left out. Meaning I started typing it up to have a more readable copy and started editing in the process. I’m sure it will be fine. (Repeat again and again, self) I’m sure my friend will enjoy it if I ever get it typed up and edited before having her take a looksie. But my own self doubt.
I just read something in my Bianually about the author Dorothy Whipple how she thought that her novel Greenbanks was never going to amount to anything then low and behold it became a best seller and is now being sold by Persephone Books. I’m not saying I’m a Dorothy Whipple (whom I must confess that I’ve never read any of her books) but self doubt is high.
I am still going to work on the darn thing. It really needs a title. I want a bit of horror in the story (because it is a bit like horror in some ways) Not the creepy kind, but just a life type horror. Once I’m willing to share you will see.
But for now I feel that it is utter crap! Why am I a writer?