I've never been one of those people who likes to flaunt their insecurities and their hurts... it's just not how my family operates. We have to be near dying to be taken to the hospital, and God forbid you ask any of us to talk about our feelings. But here I go. About to launch myself into a pity party post. Let's just think of it as a cathartic release of pent-up emotion.
I haven't written anything new in the past however long because I feel a blank inside. After receiving some crippling rejections (two in a row that had actually requested the manuscript and gave me false hope... DEVILS!), it's quite difficult to pull yourself out of your artistic funk.
Yes. I'm an artist. And in agreeing that I'm an artist, I also have to acknowledge the fact that occasionally (alright more than occasionally) we get moody. More than moody... artistically angsty would be the better term. It's difficult to immerse yourself in a career that is so personal and steeped in self-worth. My books are my babies. I pour my heart and soul into those puppies (not to mention hours upon hours of Quasimodo-ing over my laptop). Is it my fault that I fall into a comatose like depression whenever it seems like nobody is willing to stick their neck out to represent me? How am I suppose to hold my head high and tell people I'm a writer if nobody will pay me five bucks for my book to prove that I can make money off of my love?
So I suppose this is my reentry back into the real world and the realization that I got rejected, sure. Did it hurt? Absofuckinglutely. Will I keep writing? I have to. This is what I want to do with my life... I staked 20,000 in student loans on that bet and by God, I'm going to make it happen.
I've decided to use this opportunity to experiment in a few different genres. Perhaps I need an influx of freshness to invigorate myself for my future. Who knows... I could be the next Stephanie Myers... wait... nobody really wants that criticism. Let's try for the next Orson Scott Card. Except, you know, with more romance and gooey stuff.