All of the editing I’ve undertaken lately means I’ve been avoiding editing as much as actually editing, which translates into reading a lot about what I ought to be doing as a writer (read: am not doing yet), how brutal the publishing industry is (read: no-fucking-duh) and how I really ought to give up and pour my energy into making babies instead of books.
My rising hormone levels and capacity to whine are tempered by the fact that none of this matters. I’m going to write anyway. My degree of comfort with self-promotion, whether or not I believe Jonathan Franzen has anything to say worth hearing, if I’m bound to query away my youth or self-publish, I repeat: I’m going to write anyway. I’m going to wallow in the mud of mixed metaphors and later trim them as savagely as I did my own hair when I was nine-years-old.
I might, as I did then, still apologize to my mother.
Before Twitter and Tumblr and the blogosphere, what did writers do? They wrote. They talked about writing without all of the self-congratulatory bullshit. So I’m gonna write, too.