Every have one of those days where you asked yourself, “What the **** am I doing?” Am I writing something worth reading? Worth paying money for? Am I wasting my prime locked in my bedroom? Is the sacrifice of my sex life worth it? Will it pay off? Am I a joke?
Sometimes, I see the ridiculousness in my life. I spend hours every day in my room, at my computer, writing, editing, trying to be a writer. I don’t have a group of super-cool writer friends to discuss with, and trying to find a writing group on the internet is like throwing meat into a bear cage and then sticking your hand in. Everyone wants feedback on their YA fantasy, but nobody wants to have to read yours.
I need to find me one of those rare males that like to read fantasy that isn’t 300 pounds and awkward like he’s never seem a female before. (Fun activity: be a semi-attractive female and walk into a nerd store. For bonus points, where a skirt.)
Half the time, I don’t know what I’m doing. The past three years have been literally me wading through the indie pool trying not to drown and get lost or screw up so badly I’ll have to find a new pen name.
Also – Happy Halloween. Don’t forget to dress up, because today is the one day a year that it is socially acceptable to dress like a pirate in public.