Hello everyone, long time no see! I’ve been away from the blog, because I made another blog, one which isn’t under a pseudonym, and I thought I would leave this one behind, but today I missed this space and I thought, why not just keep both blogs?
Since last time I’ve started my new job as a librarian, which is very nice and relaxed and which I am enjoying. There are nice people at the library, cute kids, and my colleagues are very friendly and chatty as well, so all in all there’s a lovely vibe.
I’m struggling a little, which I guess is why I am writing on this blog and not my new blog, where I try to ‘offer more’ than just random ramblings from my confused, little mind. But here I feel like I can just talk, so that is what I will do.
My problem is this: I feel as though my life is amounting to nothing much at all. My writing isn’t going anywhere; I’ve written two books and I know that none of them will be published. One is too heavy and dark, it is a memoir from my time in hospital under section. The other is simply not well enough written, it’s lacking in both literary finesse and plot.
Now, both of these books have already brought me a lot. The writing exercise is invaluable, as there is no skill I feel is more worthwhile for me to practice than writing. It is where I find most of my self worth and it is through words that I feel I create and define myself. It is, in short, my passion. I will also continue to value my books because I feel they are time capsules from my life, especially the memoir, and like pictures, they are nice to look back and reflect on.
And so, if I can value both books without necessarily having them published, I ought to be able to reconcile myself with the fact that they are completed and left behind, moved on from, but I feel stuck, as though I can’t accept that they are not literary masterpieces. This is about as helpful as banging my head against the wall, wishing they were different books than they are will not change them.
Most authors do not publish their debut until they are quite a lot older than I am now, in their fourties and fifties and sixties, and I am sure they did not publish the first draft of their first ventures into writing. I know this, but I don’t feel it. I feel like I am a failure, like I have nothing to show for, like I am pathetic for thinking I could ever write anything of value. And that is what I am struggling with, those feelings. I wish I could bypass them and, instead of being at war with myself, settle down to write something new, something better. I want to make peace with the fact that I won’t be a published author for a long time, and meanwhile enjoy all that time which I am currently wasting on useless feelings of anxiety and sadness.
Anyway. I just wanted to word vomit a little, thanks so much if you’re still reading. I can feel that this space is still very useful to me, I already feel a bit better from looking at my thoughts from a more objective and organised perspective, and I am glad I have this outlet for that. I have been considering self-publishing my memoir, Under Section, and seeing if a few people online might want to read it. So if that sounds like something for you, do please let me know, it would mean a lot.
My psychologist says that it is important for me to keep my dreams, but I am finding it so difficult to be patient with them. Right now I guess I need to take some deep breaths and trust that there is a meaning to all of this, and that in time it will become clearer to me.
A lot of love,