Tuesday, February 18, 2014
As a result, I decided to give up on writing fiction.
I'd had it.
I'd had enough.
And I saw myself going down a dark path toward pain and total self-destruction.
Not gonna have any of that.
So I closed the door and walked away.
Shut down the website. The blog. The Goodreads. The Twitter.
The whole shebang.
I was done.
...or so I thought.
Four weeks and four days after bowing out, I woke up to that Inner Voice saying--yelling, actually--"YOU STUPID FRAKING IDIOT!!! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!? NUKE IT FROM ORBIT, GET YOU HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS, AND GET BACK TO WORK!!!"
And it was right.
I was being an idiot.
That vision of me going down a dark path of pain and self-destruction?
Your standard bout of writerly insecurity.
Only this time it was a very intense bout.
But given the stress I've been under for most of the past year-and-a-half, it made sense.
Just the other day, on a random jaunt through the Internets, I came across this post by John Scalzi that turned out to be exactly what I needed to read.
For my online friends and fellow writer peeps who've been wondering what happened to me recently, now you know.
And ready to kick some writing ass.
Let's do this.