Sometimes I read things—Nabokov, Irving, Munro—and I shake my head. “Yeah, in my entire life, I’ll never be that good.” Then I read other things—I’m choosing not to share what I find wretched writing—and I’m like, “If that can get published, I certainly can.” But now it’s not about being published; it’s about feeling proud of my work, every single sentence. Every word selection and storytelling tactic magnified under a critical glass of assessment. I was born to do this; I won’t fail at it.
Then you can’t sleep. You’re addicted to the refresh button on Amazon’s Top Sellers list, eager to find your position in the lineup. You know when you awake the reviews will be out. A critic will tear you a new asshole, and you’ll weep, realizing not just your dreams but your nightmares came true. Your writing is only popular because of the subject. Your sentences are forced, and you and your life are unoriginal. Your work will be summarized into one laconic phrase: “She tries too hard and fails at that successfully.”
That will happen. Rejection happens to everyone. But I’ll keep writing because I’m not doing it for praise or condemnation. I’m doing it just for me, being true to myself and what I know I was put on this earth to do.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Stephanie writes in "Why I blog":