This week has been pretty topsy turvy with a houseguest, problems with our new dog, a snow day, and a leaky fish tank, so my writing life has been nearly subsumed by the real world attention-takers. I think that's when I miss writing the most; when I don't have time to do it.
And part of my inability to find time (and energy) to write lately has been because of anxiety. I have these horrible thoughts about my new/first/only book. No one is ever going to read it, let alone like it. Why am I putting all of this time, passion, (and money) into this very insecure undertaking? It doesn't make any sense to me today. Why do rewrites of stuff I've already written? Why try to decide if something else I have created is worth the effort to polish and parse and send out to people I don't know with the hope that they will want to sell it? Especially if no one ever buys or likes my first one?
I have genuinely tried not to worry about the first book. My philosophy was to let it go once it had been edited and not think of it as a commodity, but that is proving hard to do. After all, I sent it out with the hopes that it was marketable, and my publisher has invested in it as a potential money maker. If it doesn't make money, they will be disappointed. If it never sells a copy I know I will be dreadfully hurt. Almost as hurt as if someone does read it and hates it. So I worry and I feel inadequate. Like a poor imitation of a writer. Feeling that way makes it very hard to write another word.