So my soundtrack this morning is Put Your Records On by Corrine Bailey Rae.
Not really because I’m feeling it AT ALL, but more because I refuse to give in to what I AM feeling and listen to something hideously angry and depressing like…IDK…The Cure.
I hardly know what to say as an update this morning other than to offer a PSA that wine, PMS, and revision planning do not go well together. Because, in concert, they strip away all the arrogance, the optimism, the protective gear that gets me through day to day, the belief that I won’t always be pulled in six different directions because I’m actually good enough. Which leaves me a mass of quivering insecurities, curled up on a wet pillow with a crying hangover. It…wasn’t a good night.
There are people in my life who would look at me in this condition and pat my hair and say “Why don’t you give yourself a break for a while?” And they’d mean well. But they’d be the devil of doubt on my shoulder. Hanging by a finger off the other shoulder is my little writing angel, who looks a lot like Mickey Goldmill (that’s Rocky’s coach for those of you not in the know) and is shouting at me that that’s the coward’s way. The lazy way. Nobody ever got anywhere from giving themselves that kind of break.
Yeah, okay Mickey.
There’s this balance we have to find as writers. We want to put out a great book. Anything less doesn’t serve our readers or our brand. But so easily we can get trapped in this paralyzing icy hell of trying to find perfection. Of only ever seeing holes and problems and the 875 ways it could be better if only I wrote the damned thing over again (and torched my soul in the process). Somewhere in there, we have to let it go. To decide that it’s good enough that they probably won’t come after us with pitchforks and one star reviews. But finding that level, accepting it, is about as rare as the birth of a white buffalo (a symbol of hope, if I remember correctly).
So this week I’m looking for my white buffalo.
Hope everybody else is in a better place.