It’s a Friday, my normal blog day. I still haven’t posted my bit about editors and while it is certainly apt for what I’ve been doing over the last couple of days, I still find myself compelled to write about what’s going on in my life right now. And what that is is reading Watcher *again* for like the 12th time.
And it made me start to wonder how many times could you re-read your own work before you got sick of it.
I think I’m getting there. And it makes me wish I had more author friends that I could bitch to.
I should preempt the rest of my post by saying that I’m not getting down on my book. In fact, as I re-read Watcher in actual book form, my mind boggles at the fact that I actually wrote it. I got to some passages and thought, “Holy crap. That’s pretty damn good. I can’t believe I wrote that!” So I’m pretty proud of what I’ve achieved so far. Being an author is a hard job.
I guess where I am is in the land of frustration right now. I suspect this is normal. I want to move on in the story, but I’m afraid of a) not living up to the expectations of all those fans who are bugging me to death for the next book and b) not being a fast enough writer to get these things out every six months.
I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I see indie authors all around me who are churning out books every 3-6 months. How on earth is that possible? I could get the first draft written in 3 months, but actually get it edited and into a good final state – no way. It’s never going to happen.
This must be what performance anxiety is like.
And so these sort of thoughts plague me on a day like today where I look outside at the pretty Spring weather and wonder why I’m stuck in a chair on my computer.
But it is what it is. Maybe I do need that writers group after all.