Fraudulent Thoughts

Sometimes I think I'm nothing but a phony. A fraud. I'm sure everyone can see right through me and immediately know I'm fooling myself thinking I'm a writer. Especially if I'm sitting around with real writers somewhere. They've got It. I'm just a wannabe.

Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland is my current non-fiction read. I liked this:

Fears about artmaking fall into two families: fears about yourself, and fears about your reception by others. In a general way, fears about yourself prevent you from doing your BEST work, while fears about your reception by others prevent you from doing your OWN work.

Under the caption of Pretending is this:

It's easy to imagine that REAL [writers] know what they're doing and that they—unlike you—are entitled to feel good about themselves and their [writing].

These concepts go to the fact that when the Story is in charge, and not Peg, things fly. Characters become individuals, not just people I've created on paper. When my ego steps out of the way, good things happen. Or rather, as a suspense novelist, bad things happen.

Press through self-doubts, ego, and the needs both those imposters create. Press through the fear until the story is all there is and ride the wave.

I'm only a fraud if that's what I believe myself to be. And I'm not.

I'm a writer.



Still reading Fractured. It's well done (Slaughter is a REAL writer), but I must say, I like shorter chapters.

It's all better with friends.

Just Do It—Get Vulnerable

Creative Procrastination only takes me so far. At some point, I need to take action, or the decision will be made for me. And then it's a decision made in weakness, not strength.

These moments come into the lives of writers on a regular basis.

One of those moments occurred the first time I sat down to write and transfer the brilliant, fascinating story in my head to paper. It looked wonderful—because I still had it in my head. Not the paper. My moment of truth came when, after learning a bit more about the craft of writing, I re-read the thing. Ouch.

Do you remember the first time you submitted your prose to a critique partner to read? Did you do it with confidence or trepidation?

The first time I entered a writing contest, I was so green I was still sticky. I knew I had a winner and some lucky duck was about to discover me. In the two short months after I entered, my learning curve shot to the moon and I recognized my dewy-faced (if not snot-nosed) entry for what it was. I would have been supremely disappointed if I had won. My faith in the organization sponsoring the contest, and what it could teach me, would have plummeted.

I needn't have worried.

The next writing contest I entered, I placed second and felt validated. (I take my victories where I can find them.)

So. Now. There's this little short story contest. The deadline is tomorrow. They've asked for people not to wait until the last minute.

And here I sit.

I'm waiting for this blast of brilliance. For the words to plow into my head that will weave a stronger character arc and maximize the danger. It probably isn't gonna happen.

But I also know this. I must enter that little contest. I need to exercise my vulnerability muscle or I'll lose it.

Such is the life of a writer.



CR: Still reading Life Expectancy.

Working on: Moving back to normal after two weeks worth of company and four days worth of flu.


It's all better with friends.