It's finally dawned on me during the last (four) barren weeks of writing anything but these blog posts and making a few inane comments on FB and Twitter (I had to log out this morning after I *actually* did the shameful/unthinkable and asked everyone to tell me whether to put on a wash or not, due to the inclement weather - and this was one of my greatest fears about signing up for the Twit-fest in the first place - that 'conversation' would become so dull I would even bore myself to www.death) that one of the reasons I haven't been making any kind of contribution to my wordcount is NOT merely because of the crushed confidence thing (which was towed off with the last car) but because I'm spending far too long trawling through other blogs and writer's websites and concluding that any input I make into the world of writing will be meaningless in comparison.
That might be the longest sentence I've ever constructed - and I've spun a few out in my time, believe me.
There are writers out there - proper, fully-fledged writers (most of whom have the sense to take a Masters Degree in Creative Writing or equivalent and hone their skills to qualified perfection) who have a publishing history and future that I could only ever get a whiff of if it ever became fragrance of the week on the Debenhams perfumery stand. And the fact I don't drive anywhere lately makes this even more unlikely.
There are writers out there who have such guts and belief in their art that they give up the day job and live on Lidl cans of baked beans for 12 months whilst honing their first book and then go out there and damned well secure their publishing deal. Yes they do! *punches air*. And there are those who are so convinced their writing is worthy that they send off the only pages they've thus far written and an Agent takes them on just like that *clicks fingers*. Or they're 'discovered'. Like the checkout girl who was talent spotted by some Model agency or other I'm sure I heard (didn't I?) or they just happen to have lunch with somebody who puts them in touch with an editor and the inevitable happens and I just sit here thinking.... oh.... oh.... oh....
Because I grew up believing that everyone gets the break. Even Snow White got the break. And that Sleeping Beauty. And Susan Boyle. People seems to be getting breaks every day. But that's not to say a lot of damned hard work doesn't go on behind the scenes - I know it does. Yes, I do know that hard work is the backbone to every success story (apart from the amazing fairy-tale discovery-break-things I mean). And right now, after having totally convinced myself that anything I write will never be worth anything; that after 4 books and nearly 4 years of getting rejection after rejection, I am quite simply exhausted with it all. I'll probably write again when I feel stronger, because I love it too much. But I am giving up trying to get published. It's soul-destroying and demoralising and I don't think my weary old body/brain can take any more beatings right now. I'll stick to reading books. I'm good at that. I don't have anything to prove when I've read a book. I don't even need to tell anyone I've done it and how great I was at doing it. Or that I'm even thinking about doing it again. No pressure.
Actually, I didn't even realise I was going to end the post this way. I intended to say I'm going to steer clear of everyone else's success stories for a while (i.e. stop beating myself up constantly) and wrap myself up in a figurative blanket in the corner of a room somewhere whilst my hurt parts heal.
So, if this is where my train of thought led me, I'm quite happy to get off and have a wander around to see what the place is like.