It is, however, still pertinent to how I'm feeling right about now.
Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I pouring my soul out on paper and then handing it over to people to judge? Why am I still going despite the fact that I've been told over and over and over again that what I have to offer is not wanted?
Doing this is a big deal for me. I mean, before I started out on this ridiculous career, I could barely talk to strangers for fear of judgement.
Why am I doing this?
I don't understand myself sometimes. I don't understand why I'm so driven to have my stories be published. I don't understand why I want them published traditionally. I mean, I love to write. Most everyone who has read what I've written enjoys it. Why the hell should I care if an acquisition editor likes it? Why? Why? Why?
When I first started out, I was fairly certain that I would be published. Somehow, despite the pile of rejections tucked away somewhere in my room, I still feel like my writing is good and I will be published. Yet, I also feel like I will never be recognised. That my writing is rubbish. That everyone hates it. How is it possible to feel two opposite things are true at the same time? I don't get it, so don't ask me.
I was just about to say that I'm at my wits end. Whether or not that is true, I'll keep plugging away all the same. Fifty years from now, I'll probably still be plugging away at it. I don't know why. I think that perhaps there really isn't anything else I ever really wanted to do so much.
I want a career as a fiction writer.
So I guess I have no choice but to keep striving for it until it either happens, or I die. If the first, then woot! If the second, perhaps I'll be recognised post mortem.
You know, this roller-coaster isn't fun, but it's the only ride I want to be on.