Cow Shit

I feel like a total maniac today. This wasn’t scheduled to be posted. I probably won’t hit my target audience—because THAT’S a thing I have to think about though I don’t really understand it and I don’t want it to matter and I HATE that it does because if I don’t have an audience, I don’t have any sales, and then…I just can’t think about that.

This is just the crap that is spewing from my brain through my fingers instead of the novel I should be writing because Book 3 isn’t going to write its damn self.

It feels like the other two will never be ready either.

I know I’m being ridiculous. Just let me feel it for a little bit. I can handle it, but fuuuuuck it’s a messy, wild process and sometimes I can’t breathe.

Like right now.

Right now, to pull a reference from the movie "Heather's," I'm flailing in cow shit (thank you Winona Ryder).

There are so many things that you never think about when you start cranking out sentences. So many tidbits that didn’t matter in the first several drafts but that sure as hell need to get fixed before uploading to publish.

  • How many times did I use the word fuck? Shit? And who says each? Should I cut the rest?

  • How many times did someone say damn it, and how did I spell it (damnit, dammit, damn it) and which way is actually correct? And who says damn it, and who says son of a bitch—and how did I spell THAT (sonofabitch, son-of-a-bitch)?

  • “Maybe” was used 70+ times by different characters. Do people actually say “maybe” that much? Should just one person say it?

  • What they like to eat and drink, and how they dress and smell, and their damn eye colors have to be consistent.

  • Is it “eying” or “eyeing”? Did I use both?

  • Christsakes and fucksakes are actually Christ sakes and fuck sakes…for Fuck Sakes!

  • Does he call her Ma? Mom? Mother? Make it consistent!

  • Do all the quotes match between books 1 and 2?

  • How many references to someone’s “tongue” are appropriate? (adjust expectations for romance genre).

Preparing two books to be published in tandem while the unwritten pages for the third and final book in the series are staring me down is a little like drowning.

A lot like drowning.

I'm drowning...in cow shit. 😑

The Cliff

Turns out, I’m a little hard on myself.

Brutal was the word a dear friend used to describe my inner dialogue.

I’m hard on everyone else too.

I got my novel back from the editor this week. I might’ve mentioned it once or a dozen times. This isn’t my first book. It’s actually my third completed novel (fourth if you count the ghost story I finished in a red notebook in middle school), but the first I spent years whittling down, sending to betas, whittling again, then hiring a professional to dissect with a fine-toothed comb. To this point, this is the biggest, most important step I’ve ever taken.

The feeling of being “gutted” I mentioned when I got my marked-up manuscript back had less to do with the actual gutting of my book (the edits were valid and thorough and are helping me see the story with fresh eyes) and more to do with running toward the edge of a cliff, jumping off, and finding no one at the bottom to catch me.

We are born alone—usually. We die alone. And we jump off that proverbial cliff into our wildest dreams alone, and either we hit that bottom like Wile E. Coyote or we figure out how the fuck to fly. **Apologies to my editor for using the “F” word yet again!** And we do all of these things regardless of how many—or how few—people are there to witness them.

Though the chasm below the cliff was empty when I took this first major leap, there was a man waiting on the other side, his arms open with pride in his eyes, and a little blonde boy riding atop his shoulders, waiting to give me a hug and remind me that I have all that I already need at home.

 

 definitely not the highlight reel

This week I got the manuscript that I’ve been working on since 2016 back from my editor and I’m absolutely gutted.

Eight years of work, and a sequel in the balance, and I’m raw and afraid and questioning everything and want to quit.

Not just because of the mountain of work ahead of me, but because it doesn’t seem to matter.

 

I feel like a little kid again, wanting to be held.

I feel like the little girl with her spiral notebook writing stories that no one is interested in.

I feel like a 4yo girl butting heads with my 4yo son, wondering who is going to hold me when he wants a hug.

 

Because I am that little girl this week. The one that didn’t feel loved enough. That didn’t feel wanted. That got so good at hiding she became invisible. That was never, ever good enough.

Like that little girl that I never really left behind, I feel unsupported.

Unimportant.

Unseen.

Alone.

 

I guess when you build yourself a fortress on an island and decide to live there, you shouldn’t be surprised when no one shows up. I thought I lowered a drawbridge.

Maybe not soon enough.