I saw this tweet from an online writer I know and it spun me away from the WIP I was working on and made me think.
I’m so grateful & stunned that anyone reads my books at all! I still fight the urge to apologize anytime someone says he/she bought my work.
— Olivia Dade/Dart (@OliviaWrites) March 31, 2016
I replied.
I think this is common. Sometimes, I’m embarrassed to tell people I write books, like it’s some unsavory hobby. https://t.co/EcEUWWV5ly
— Michelle Boule (@wanderingeyre) April 1, 2016
We need to own it. We write some damn fine books. @OliviaWrites 🙂
— Michelle Boule (@wanderingeyre) April 1, 2016
@wanderingeyre I was praised for my writing out of the blue last wk & I thot, “you think this is ok?” We all do this. Write, lady, write.
— K.G. Schneider (@kgs) April 1, 2016
I could not help but laugh at all of us, because I have been feeling terrible about my writing the last few weeks.
Writing anything of length looks something like this, for me anyway:
I have a brilliant idea. Writes. This idea it shite. Writes. How am I ever going to finish this? Writes. Why are the characters doing that? Writes. Everything I write is terrible. Lord, save me from myself. Writes. Reads a newsletter from my editor. Gets inspired. Writes. Gets annoyed at lack of time to write. Gets time to write. Stares at screen. Plays a video game. Reads a book. Or five. Writes. Why the hell am I doing this? Thinks about that other series I could be writing and will not get out of my head. Solves a problem in the plot of the next book in the series but NOT the one I should be currently working on. Ignores the other story and writes. I’m a genius. Writes. I suck. Repeat a million times.
We write these personal things. Books. Stories. Poems. Even if they are not about us, we are in them. Part of us is there, poured into every word and turn of phrase. That is me on that page, in that book you are holding and I want to be lovely and fun, but mostly I just feel like the geek who got pity invited to the party.
I want to own my work better.
My books are good. They have women in them who can rip a man’s throat out, drink their weight in whisky, and who fight for their own HEA. While they do not need a man, they sure do love to have them around. They are worth reading. My harpies are worth falling in love with. I am head over heels for them.
And, like any good love story, this is my confession scene.
I am proud of them. I do want to own up and say, I created them. For better or worse, they are mine.
I love writing. It complicates my already busy, overcrowded life, but I need these words I weave like I need air. One of these days, I’ll be able to admit that I am good at it with better frequency.
Until then, I better get back to writing.