2009--the Year in Writing.
Dec. 31st, 2009 02:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
agilebritKind of sucked, actually.
I mean, okay, yes. I added 17,000 words to the first novelthing and beat it into something actually readable. I'm 135,000 words into the sequel with an end in sight but god alone knows what's happening in the middle. I had two stories published (and paid for, let's not forget that), and another accepted at Anthology Builder. I'm getting a better class of rejection these days. I actually sent out queries for the first novel. Word-count-wise, I'm knocking on 170,000 if you count the Ghost Ship Story (which is not complete and may never be because it's So Very Broken) and a couple of fanfics I did. I wrote one of my favorite short stories EVER.
That's the Good.
The Bad is manyfold. I completed one short story this year. Count 'em, Jim, ONE (e-cookies to anyone who gets the reference). I missed a Writers of the Future deadline--and may miss this one too. Seriously, the Abducted!Werewolf story is the only thing I have that remotely suits, and it's a Shaggy Dog Story at best and a ridiculous waste of time at worst.
The new novel is horrible and I've written myself into a corner. I have piled more hurt on one character's head than it is humanly possible to bear (which means, I guess, that it's a good thing he's a werewolf). Not only that, but I feel like I'm spinning my wheels writing the thing because it's unpublishable and I don't have the chops to pull off the nuances anyway. And yet, if I don't complete it, that feels like a failure too, and a waste of an entire year's worth of writing.
And thus, the spectre of "Not a Real Writer" raises its ugly head. I think my stories are good, but apparently editors across the land are less than enamored of them. I'm not sure, at this point, I can NOT write--but that may be moot anyway as the ideas are drying up and I am, frankly, getting discouraged. I know, I know: Real Writers write, and thus by that definition I'm a Real Writer, rah rah rah. I'm just wondering if I'm an actual Good Writer.
On top of all that, I haven't actually written anything at all this week. Nothing. I've poked desultorily at the novelthing, and nothing's emerged.
Or I may just be suffering burnout and the Winter Blahs. Who knows. Feh.
I mean, okay, yes. I added 17,000 words to the first novelthing and beat it into something actually readable. I'm 135,000 words into the sequel with an end in sight but god alone knows what's happening in the middle. I had two stories published (and paid for, let's not forget that), and another accepted at Anthology Builder. I'm getting a better class of rejection these days. I actually sent out queries for the first novel. Word-count-wise, I'm knocking on 170,000 if you count the Ghost Ship Story (which is not complete and may never be because it's So Very Broken) and a couple of fanfics I did. I wrote one of my favorite short stories EVER.
That's the Good.
The Bad is manyfold. I completed one short story this year. Count 'em, Jim, ONE (e-cookies to anyone who gets the reference). I missed a Writers of the Future deadline--and may miss this one too. Seriously, the Abducted!Werewolf story is the only thing I have that remotely suits, and it's a Shaggy Dog Story at best and a ridiculous waste of time at worst.
The new novel is horrible and I've written myself into a corner. I have piled more hurt on one character's head than it is humanly possible to bear (which means, I guess, that it's a good thing he's a werewolf). Not only that, but I feel like I'm spinning my wheels writing the thing because it's unpublishable and I don't have the chops to pull off the nuances anyway. And yet, if I don't complete it, that feels like a failure too, and a waste of an entire year's worth of writing.
And thus, the spectre of "Not a Real Writer" raises its ugly head. I think my stories are good, but apparently editors across the land are less than enamored of them. I'm not sure, at this point, I can NOT write--but that may be moot anyway as the ideas are drying up and I am, frankly, getting discouraged. I know, I know: Real Writers write, and thus by that definition I'm a Real Writer, rah rah rah. I'm just wondering if I'm an actual Good Writer.
On top of all that, I haven't actually written anything at all this week. Nothing. I've poked desultorily at the novelthing, and nothing's emerged.
Or I may just be suffering burnout and the Winter Blahs. Who knows. Feh.
