eight years and two months I've been at this. its the only constant i'm used to now. i'm about 250 pages into book ten and all i can think about is finishing it so i can write a great ending and somehow submit this monster to someone, anyone who will listen.
there's a lot of great people in the writers groups i attend. everyone is doing their thing but no one is working either in the same field/genre or at the same pace as me. its difficult for me to relate to the person who would like to write as much as i do but "just can't find the time to write."
it doesn't work like that. to be a writer, you can't just do all the other things in life and then write that NY times bestseller in your spare time. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck that.
you have to commit to it. it should be a passion to do what you do. Johnny the homicidal maniac once said something that i feel is very true. "There's nothing more deplorable than to have contempt for ones own motivations."
people are always amazed that i'm in the break room at work with my laptop out while eating. They ask "are you still writing?" well how do you think the job gets done? "wanting" to be a writer doesn't make it happen.
I'm going to write this book and when i finish it im going to write another. and when i'm done with the series, that son of a bitch is going to be over 4000 pages. fuck you. not 400... 4000 its an epic that leapt out of my brain and commanded me to write.
if anyone is reading this, i'm having a hard time with everything else... no one is interested, rejection letters (email that is. we publishers and agents dont waste our good envelops on you wannabe failure types)
but at least im writing. i'm going to write those books and then i'll write another... then another.
and someday, someone is going to say yes.
and when that happens, im going to fucking cry.
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