I’ve published collections of LGBTQ-themed short stories, including, more recently, Centipede as an ebook, so let me tell you a little about my writing history. There’s someone around whom I feel uncomfortable because she often talks about how much she enjoys authorship. Is this how I am supposed to feel? Is it supposed to something I’d be “lost without”?
If you’ve read some of my other posts, you know I’m not pretending to be anyone I’m not, and I’m not someone who feels this way. Writing, in my experience, is a torturous affair, one in which an idea forms, then proceeds to scratch its way out. Being a master procrastinator requires breathing the atmosphere of guilt in which I, out of inadequacy, attempt to ignore the ideas. I have never excelled at this, so, I bear down upon them as they scratch and gnaw, making their way out of me onto paper. This is not a labour of love.
The first draft is always cringe-worthy, but I am comforted by Google searches suggesting this is usually the case (even with genius writers, I like to think). You may know from my author bio that I’ve been writing since 2005, when I won a silver medal for the short story Heart Man (My Sister’s Voice & Other Short Stories), enough time to have learned to get the bare bones down. Once I’ve done that, like an inept god, I start the rewrites, which are the flesh of the animal I’m creating outside me. If there were something about the writing process I enjoyed, it would be editing; the of which, on a subsequent reading, you’re surprised you’ve written because it resembles something written by another author that would have made you fling the book aside and decide never to write again.
In my early writing years I had trust issues. I’d write something, love it, then reread it at a later date and wonder how, at first creation, I’d been unable to see it was crap. Now I know, even after a gazillion rewrites, it’s good to put the work away to then see it with fresh eyes. Perhaps I’m just too hard on myself though, because, even after having won over fifteen awards for short stories, some of which have been published, it can be difficult to reread them. I see where they could reflect a new me, when they represent the me of the ‘now’ in which they were written.
Other issues arise. More recently, I’ve been concerned about environmental activism and, because I’ve lived in countries where I wasn’t reduced to who I may want to sleep with, honestly:
There’s also this: you can only be a writer if you can afford it. Time and space to write costs money, as does marketing the book to bring it to your readers. If you have a great book with limited access to marketing machinery, it’ll go unnoticed…and vice versa (struggling not to throw Shade[s of grey]). Why then do I write if writing has proven to be somewhat wrought with internal conflict and frustrations? That’s a question for a therapist, but my guess is that it has the effects of journaling: to organise my thoughts, allow for self-reflection and ironically…relieve stress. It’s also a great confidence booster, not only because of the accolades, but because of a feeling of self-actualisation arising from my definition of success, which is to put my experiences out into the world where others can see they are not alone.
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