So, since my last post, I've written... oh, bugger. Excuse me while I go write the last 59 words required to make it a round 3k.
*sounds of anal-retentive typing*
Ahem. So, since my last post, I've written exactly 3,013 words. This means, basically, that this last week has been my single most productive week since I graduated from high school, not including NaNo, and not including the Sekrit Santa short story that I totally didn't put off writing until the last minute so I totally don't know what you're talking about. >.<
Anyway, this is a supremely exciting thing for me. I love writing. It's been a long time since I could let myself love writing. I got some of that through NaNo and the short story, true, but it's been a long time since I've been able to write without feeling the pressure of holy-crap-I-have-no-idea-how-this-is-going-to-turn-out-it'll-never-be-publishable-holy-crap. Because, y'know, I'm one of those very foolish people who worry about publication before they've even gotten into the meat of a novel, much less finished one.
...wow. Confessing that actually makes me feel a little better.
I do give the self-righteous answers: I don't write with an eye towards publication, I write strictly for the joy of it! Half of that's true. I write for the joy of writing. Three guesses as to which part's false, and the first two don't count unless they involve cookies. (What? I like cookies.)
I'm going to be honest: my greatest goal in life is to make a living off of my writing. Improbable? Yes. Impossible until I actually start finishing things? Oh, heck yes. This is what contributes the most to my stress about writing, and possibly prevents me from investing in a project after I hit the first bump. I get a problem, freak out because this obviously means I'll never finish the plot in a thousand bajillion years, and then latch on to the first shiny new idea to cross my brain (average elapsed time: 3 seconds) in the hopes that this is the one, this is the project that will get me across that distant finish line and onto the road of editing that leads to the shiny city of publication in the distance (so my metaphors suck, what else is new?).
I can't imagine myself doing anything other than writing with my life, and not just because I love writing with all the passion of a thousand bajillion icy stars. No, it's also because I can't imagine myself being able to function in any other job. I can't function as an adult--this becomes painfully more clear with every day that passes here at college. I can barely handle doing my laundry; I can barely handle showering more than once a week; phoning anyone other than my mother, including close friends and siblings, freaks me out way too much to be healthy. Writing is the one thing I'm confident I can do. Or, I am when I'm looking at it objectively, which I don't do all that much.
So, every time I drop a project, another little part of me becomes convinced I'll never be able to make it in the world. I'll starve to death because I can't hold a job, because I can't handle people. Or something.
...I really think I had a point going into this, but it's gotten lost in the sea of angst. Urgh.
I guess what I'm saying is, this nice, consistent at-least-100-words-a-day (I'm finding somewhere around 350 has been my average so far) thing is really kind of helping me with the writing-related stress. I still have loads of it, but... some very small part of the confidence I once had that I could get published one day, that I might even--gasp!--be able to make a living off of the words I pull out of my head, is returning, or at least sending letters and sounding out the situation at home to decide if returning is really in its best interest. And, at this point in my life, when I'm this very close to getting my first real-person job and freaking out about time management and dealing with other people, that little bit of (potential) confidence is definitely making a difference. A small difference, but it's there, and I really appreciate it.
...okay, I swear this just started out as an update post, not a touchy-feely admitting-I-fail-at-being-a-real-person post.
And, like, what's with all the crappy metaphors?