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x-ray vision
I had The Fear last night. By which I mean that I found myself lying there in the dark, staring crazily at the ceiling and viciously scratching my head till it bled, my brain spinning down and down into ever greater depths of angst. Why last night, I don't know. Yesterday was great in many ways: end of term, won argument with shop assistant over Matt's shoes, Thai food, Garden State (which I loved). But suddenly, click, off went the light and on came the usual parade of thoughts of inadequacy and restlessness and self-doubt. When I got to the old reliable "maybe this is all there is, I should stop trying to write books and resign myself to being a two-bit teacher and nothing else, I have no imagination and my only skill is regurgitating simple facts", I knew there was nothing else for it but to get up and medicate myself with hot fruit tea and the internet.
On which I found a message from Andy Cox at Interzone, replying to a prod I gave him last week, saying yes, they are still supporting the James White Award and are definitely going to publish my story. Which is some encouragement. But he didn't say when.
I wrote an epic whinge, then thought better of it at the last minute (sometime around 3.30 am) and didn't post it. Thank goodness, now that I read it again. Instead, a weird moment from yesterday:
Two men were sitting in Coffee Republic, both in shiny bomber jackets with buzz-cuts. They didn't particularly look like doctors, in fact they looked more like builders or rugby players - but they were holding an X-ray of someone's pelvis up to the light, pointing at parts of it, and collapsing into giggles.
On which I found a message from Andy Cox at Interzone, replying to a prod I gave him last week, saying yes, they are still supporting the James White Award and are definitely going to publish my story. Which is some encouragement. But he didn't say when.
I wrote an epic whinge, then thought better of it at the last minute (sometime around 3.30 am) and didn't post it. Thank goodness, now that I read it again. Instead, a weird moment from yesterday:
Two men were sitting in Coffee Republic, both in shiny bomber jackets with buzz-cuts. They didn't particularly look like doctors, in fact they looked more like builders or rugby players - but they were holding an X-ray of someone's pelvis up to the light, pointing at parts of it, and collapsing into giggles.
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"x-ray anol insert OMG sexy hot emo!!!!"
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I really want to lighten that with a smiley, but I just told
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There are two separate questions, I think:
1. Can I write stuff that stuff that I'm happy with?
2. Can I make a living doing it?
I think you should try and be successful and number 1 and not feel bad if number 2 doesn't seem to be happening. Actually making a living out of writing is so dependent on factors outside your control that's its not worth fretting about (and it certainly doesn't have much bearing on how good you are).
Obviously, finding the time and energy to write is tough if you have to spend most of your time making a living and that's a circle I haven't been able to square (my job still dominates my life at the moment).
But, certainly, I think it's worth riding out the bad patches and persevering - it's a long-haul commitment and it's going to feel rubbish at times but hopefully the destination will make the journey worth it.
I'm saying this as much to myself as I am to you.
Good luck with the whole shebang!
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Solution 1, from
Solution 1, from
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I brought them back yesterday, because I had more time on my hands and because they know me in there, as I've bought almost all my recent shoes from them. So the argument consisted of me saying 'you've been so reliable in the past, when you say something is a certain size we're inclined to believe you,' and them getting all shirty that Matt hadn't wiped the grit and London grime off the soles before packing them back up, and me offering to wipe them myself if that was the only problem, and repeating 'but you said they were 10s and you were wrong, you wouldn't want to lose my custom, would you?'
I didn't think I'd get away with it, but somehow I did. And I didn't even have to do any wiping.
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You know, looking at the stuff I've written recently, I feel almost exactly the same way. At least you have a prestigious award to prove you have some talent.
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I know I'm going to sound like someone's dad saying this (hey - I am someone's dad), but it's a really bad idea to think about things when you need sleep.
On some level I've always known this, but when you look after toddlers you see what a fundamental truth it is: tired people get upset, irritable and are generally completely broken.
[This entry brought to you by the I-Need-Sleep Hypocrisy Society]
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You are doing fine so far. It's natural to panic.
Without self-doubt you [one] wouldn't be able to push yourself [oneself] to greater things.
Perhaps one of the main goals in life is making other people envious.
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Nobody ever thinks of me as a writer.
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But... I don't think I worded any of that terribly well. There was all sorts of gunk swirling round my head. The worry about having no talent was just part of a more general dislike of myself. I feel like I've turned into a dry, middle-aged, mousy, hesitant, timid frump of a person, when what I really want to be doing is jumping for joy and crying when I need to, having adventures, having ideas that go on like lightbulbs in my head... screaming into the infinite abyss, even.
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