Hilary Moon Murphy

Birth, Rebirth and Nothingness

My brain is fried tonight, any I realize that I won't be writing anything meaningful in the way of fiction, so it's time to blather in the journal for a while. I'm trying to decide a bunch of things in my life, and I guess I'm going to dump on you.

First the word count. 6030 words in four days. Not bad, but far short of the heroic two thousand words a day that Sam and I were going to do together. Still, I did more words in the last five days than I did in the previous twenty-five, which probably still counts for something. What, I don't know.

Instead of writing on the novel, I wrote the first half of an SF story. It's weird. It's about plants and psychotic people and what happens when you get in over your head by pretending that you are something that you are not.

It has nothing to do with Andrew Jackson, patents, or 1836. So I'm not counting any of it against my novel dare totals. And I've begun to wonder if I've gotten in over my head while pretending that I am something that I'm not.

There are some days when I wonder if I'm really a writer. If I should just throw in the towel, close off the journal and be done with the whole thing. Maybe take up some other hobby for a while. I've been going at this writing thing for how long? And yet, I know that my stuff is getting better and better.

One of these days, an editor is going to like a story enough to buy it -- right? Maybe my problem is just that I'm not persistent enough. I do not have enough stories out there, and I'm not really good at finishing my large projects. I keep getting mental blocks when it comes to the current novel. I need more discipline, more energy, more drive. Instead, what I have is a lot of self-doubt and a strong inner critic.

I hate inner critics.

This is sounding a bit like a blue funk, isn't it? Okay, so it is. Part of being a writer is believing in oneself enough to get past the depression and blue funks.

So... deep breath. Repeat after me:

I believe in myself. I give myself permission to write, permission to fall on my face, and permission to explore cool weird ideas that no one else thinks is particularly interesting. I believe in myself.

If you're not a writer, insert whatever goal or activity is meaningful to you. And keep going. Even if you're depressed.

Why am I depressed? You know, I'm not even sure why. My life is full of stuff to celebrate. Work has gone on overtime, but I'm making all my goals and a part-time job has opened up (finally!) at my library that I have a really good chance of getting.

My word counts have been good, and I've been asked to do a reading at a local SF bookstore. My first reading. I feel like I should be shouting the news at the rooftops. So why aren't I?

A whole bunch of my friends, including Karen Meisner and Inna Larsen, have just had beautiful babies. My own little Bear has finally gotten over her illness and is toddling everywhere, laughing and dancing.

And yet, I somehow feel isolated and small and alone. It seems a truly American thing to be depressed when everything is going right.

I believe in myself. I give myself permission to write, permission to fall on my face, and permission to explore cool weird ideas that no one else thinks is particularly interesting. I believe in myself.

Sometimes you have to repeat your mantras more than once. Sometimes you have to just hang on.

I was going to profile either Karina or Jim tonight, but I think that instead I'll wait and do them both tomorrow when I can do them more justice by being upbeat.

Meanwhile, I hope that all of you out there are believing in yourselves. God bless.

Hmm