I am burnt. That will come as no surprise after my last blog post. Unlike my picture prompts (Yay for prompting!), I don't have a series of blog posts in the queue. Why? Because I don't know what this blog is about. I've subscribed to all sorts of blogs: reviews, interviews, tours, writing tips, reading tips, marketing tips, twitter tips, but none of that is what THIS blog is about.
I'm not an avid reader. I don't have a lot of time, so most of my reading comes in the form of beta reading/editing. I am committed to those pieces, so I read them. Would I read them otherwise? In the case of all but a few, no, never. So why don't I take books I like out of the library? Same reason. I get about a chapter in and think, "this isn't interesting enough for me to set the time aside." Or worse, three weeks go by, I get a notice from the library to return said book and I haven't even cracked the cover. Reviewing is definitely out.
I can't share what I beta read. That wouldn't be fair to the people I'm working with. I can't tear apart their work publically so you can see what I'm learning from the writing (like Janice Hardy does with emailed submissions).
Without direction or an audience, this blog is really pointless. Kinda like me. I'm sitting here, writing because I enjoy it, reading what I write because I enjoy doing that and can make small repairs, and keeping it all to myself. I have a publisher that I don't have any real beef with, but I can't sell stories. I can't sell me. It's obvious I don't know or even want to know how. I have too many other things to do:
like my day job — which is influencing the work in the oil sands; I have a really cool job that comes with its own fulfillment,
my family — they've been far too kind about my absences and constant irritability,
my home — you have NO idea how much cleaning I really need to do to this place; I shouldn't even be typing this.
Where does making a career as a writer fit in? Honestly, it doesn't. That's the problem. I can cry in the wilderness all I want, but there are bigger publishers, bigger authors, bigger blogs, and only those who have some sort of personal connection are going to give a rat's ass about what I write. It's come crashing down as I'm trying to figure out what I HAVE to do before I leave town. This blog post was one.
I committed to two posts a week. Wednesday and Saturday. Sometimes Saturday slides into Sunday, and I don't think that's a problem, but to be 'professional' I need a regular blog post.
Guess what. I'm not a professional.
My daughter is not home right now, and it's a very good thing because in the last twelve hours I've thrown no less than five tantrums worthy of a two year-old. My daughter is four. She'd think I'm acting like a big baby. And I am. And I want to. I don't want to do this. I don't want to feel like my nerves are being slowly spun and tightened until they are going to snap. I don't want to hear the screaming in my spine that sounds like my inner child dying. I don't want the crushing headaches that come from winding myself up so badly. I don't want to curl up on my bed and cry for an hour or two before getting the strength to try to knock one more thing off the list.
I have my first book signing in a little over a week. I'm going to dress up and put on makeup, which I almost never do, in an attempt to look 'professional.' It's a crock. In my day job, I'm a professional. As a writer, I'm just a lucky hack hobbyist and that's all I'm going to be.