20/9/13

taste_is_sweet: (Every Five Pages)
I finished my new novel yesterday. I put in the last edits, made sure the title page had the right info on it, and sent that sucker off. Hopefully to engender a six-figure bidding war between famous publishers before it gets snapped up by Joss Whedon.

My immediate future. Of course.
 photo Money.jpg

So, with the work finished and my wealth and fortune completely assured, you'd think that I'd be happy, wouldn't you? Well, so would I! Except for how I'm not.

Nope. Pretty much everything made me cry this morning. Nothing like trying to sing along to your MP3 player and getting choked up by songs that have nothing to do with your life.

The sad (sadder?) thing is, I know it's because the novel's finished. This has happened to me before. What should be an occasion for enthusiastic relief, or at least relief and alcohol, instead ends up giving me the blues for days. Because obviously, if I'm not working on something then I'm a useless human being, right? Not to mention that once the novel's been sent out into the big, bad world, there's a huge, enormous chance that no one will like it. And if no one likes my writing, then I'm a useless human being.

Wash, rinse, repeat ad nauseam.

So here I am, moping 'cause I've got something accomplished. Go, me. And now I get to add terror to misery by starting something else that maybe no one will like either.

Writing: It's not a job, it's a (completely self-imposed) torment! And yet I keep doing it anyway.

Isn't one of the definitions of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result?

 photo Chimp.jpg

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