August 24th, 2014

There is not enough time in the day to take my time.

For the first time in my life, I will have something I have written in a book format. But I am not happy.

I am mad. I am almost furious. I am so furious, that I am listening to Mozart’s Requiem. 

I am mad, because I spent the last five hours of my Sabbath reviewing, reading, and editing the final portion of Spring, then going through the process of selling my soul to Amazon. I did all of this willingly and knowingly. I did nothing against my will, but maybe with my ignorance.

I got excited yesterday when I realized that it is easy to get free paperback copies of your work if only you sell your soul to Amazon. I overlooked that part.

I am mad, because I bothered at all to go through the process that has now given me nothing. I will have three paperback copies of a rough draft of a horrible novel written by an ambitious and agitated teenager. I wrote it between fifteen and now. I could now insert a rant about how teenagers should not write, or at least not share their writing. I will and I will keep it short.

Teenagers are not good at writing. They can be good for being teenagers. But they are not good – nor will they ever be – good writers until they cease to be teenagers. This is how it works. They only become good, if they went through a stage of being bad or most likely awful. 

I wrote Spring and I was an awful writer.

The reason I am mad?

I wanted to do it, because the Devil tempted me with the idea of a physical book with my name on the front of it! Even if it is the worst thing I have ever written.

The reason I am mad?

I have shed light on a novel that ought to never have seen the light of day.

And now, I am questioning the whole idea of me even writing. What I want right now is to write more but to keep it all to myself. I am again attracted to the idea of writing whatever I want and keeping it all to myself until the day of my death.

I am being very fatalistic right now.

I am mad, because making the novel (from henceforth, I will not even name it) physically exist has now put a stop to the whole process of writing it. It exists in all of its imperfection. It also exists with a terrible and disgusting cover. It is a testament to a grand failure that I would have preferred borrowing from in later novels than give a place in this world at all.

I cannot describe to you how much the covers of these books matter to me. They are everything. If the cover of one book is not exactly how I imagine it, then the entire book is a failure. By ordering paperbacks of the novel, I have now ruined the organization I had in my head.

Aside from this journal and school assignments, I have no problem with taking a long vow of silence with my writing. I may do that, actually. Everything I write could just be locked up in a great vault, until the day it is all ready to have covers.

And I still have laundry to do.

And I still have to cook.

And I want to go to bed by ten.

And there are so many pieces of others’ writing that I should read.

I edited an essay by a friend of mine. I was too liberal with my additions and excisions. I upset her. For that, I am sorry. I have never edited the work of another that closely. Someone once did it to me. I sent him a short story I wrote called Your Room, Our Womb and he re-wrote it in his voice. I was livid.

I read a book called Bird by Bird written by Anne Lamott. I disliked that book, because Anne is too schizophrenic and hard on herself. She attaches herself far too strongly in her work.

One thought on “August 24th, 2014

  1. David Henry says:

    1. It’s never as bad you think.
    2. Your soul does not belong to Amazon.
    3. You have years of writing, improving, and more writing ahead.
    4. Welcome to the 21st century, where every young writer publishes early and easy. That’s how learning is done in our generation.
    5. Trust God and keep at it.

    Like

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