Here we are. It is the beginning of 2017. The morose days of self-reflection that came with the end of the old year are over. Now comes the self-reflection that comes with the new year. The good news is that it is not morose, however it is rather impatient.
I know that I am hard at work furthering my creative pursuits. I have close to 90,000 words down on paper and am going through that with a fine toothed editing comb to make it as good a read as I can. But it has been almost two years since I released my first novel. I’ve flogged that horse as much as it can take. It won’t get me any farther. But the new ride isn’t ready yet.
And that is where the feeling of stagnation comes.
I know I am creating, but it is behind closed doors. I don’t know how to turn that unseen world into positive results. Editing feels very quiet at pensive with very little to attract an audience. I feel as if I were to ring my bell it would to only announce that nothing has changed.
This is where the needy part of my writing comes out. I think everyone should read my books and want to talk about them endlessly. But I know that I need to keep adding fuel to the fire that is my light, and here it has been two years since I had new fuel to give.
Sure, in that time I’ve started a new job, we’ve had our first child, I’ve been steadily working on a sequel. My mind knows all that and accepts it. It knows that I shouldn’t rush out something unfinished.
But my heart doesn’t want to hear those excuses. I beat myself up for not being further along in a process that I have very little control of. The process of attracting more and more people to my writing.
And again we get to that feeling of being adrift. I hate being adrift. I want to be the master of my destiny. I want to feel like I am taking bold, positive steps forward. Instead I feel like I am standing on a wooden box at the back of a crowd muttering “Ahem, if I could have your attention please…”
The waiting for progress frustrates me, as does the struggle for readers and reviews. I tap my fingers and double check my daily views and triple check that there are no new mentions of my book to post. And then I open back up the sequel and try and smooth over the rough patches. I get lost in my own words and start seeing some beauty there.
Hours pass. I make progress. My mind gets tired. Time to go to bed.
I wake up. And there it is. The feeling that I haven’t made progress. That I’m stagnating. Because editing is a hidden aspect and I want to be seen.
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Deadly Troubadour 