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twistdfateangelI'm backing up City Under Glass here. Also, I'm venting, because the people I'm venting about don't know about this account.
To Family Friend who writes and is trying to help,
I know, I took it hard. I know you only wanted to help me. But, the advice hurt. "Everybody's first novel sucks?" "Write something else and, if it gets published, try to publish your first one?" Yeah, that hurt. Even if it's true. I know you were probably trying to save me a lot of heartache, but the ache's just as bad, if not worse, knowing that I will probably never see this story published.
*/vent*
The wind's been knocked out of my sails about this novel. Maybe I'll pick it up later, but right now, it seems so damn futile. Sure, I have other things I can write, but will it matter? It'll all suck for the first million words. Why should I even bother? That million words is the first three novels, and that's half the series I had in my head. It doesn't deserve to suck, none of my ideas do, so what's the damn point?
I can't write for the moment. Give me a week. Maybe more, maybe less. It just hurts too much to go back and look at those 31 pages and realize how stupid it must all sound. It was all so brilliant back in December. It was beautiful and golden and witty. Now? I don't think I know anymore.
To Family Friend who writes and is trying to help,
I know, I took it hard. I know you only wanted to help me. But, the advice hurt. "Everybody's first novel sucks?" "Write something else and, if it gets published, try to publish your first one?" Yeah, that hurt. Even if it's true. I know you were probably trying to save me a lot of heartache, but the ache's just as bad, if not worse, knowing that I will probably never see this story published.
*/vent*
The wind's been knocked out of my sails about this novel. Maybe I'll pick it up later, but right now, it seems so damn futile. Sure, I have other things I can write, but will it matter? It'll all suck for the first million words. Why should I even bother? That million words is the first three novels, and that's half the series I had in my head. It doesn't deserve to suck, none of my ideas do, so what's the damn point?
I can't write for the moment. Give me a week. Maybe more, maybe less. It just hurts too much to go back and look at those 31 pages and realize how stupid it must all sound. It was all so brilliant back in December. It was beautiful and golden and witty. Now? I don't think I know anymore.
