... that a character finds he knows absolutely nothing but anything but the one gift he finds he is so good at it leaves everyone in the dust. Well, fiction does have to make sense.
If only I knew how to use words, to string them together, to imprint a scene in a reader's head and make them sing This is what's happening! What'll happen next? with suspenseful, crystalline logic. If only I knew how to make them dance, to pound at readers and squeeze their expectancy till their throats dry and their hearts accelerate with the force of a Maglev train.
Okay. Now I know I don't. Faults I knew nothing of in my work now make themselves painfully apparent as I read and learn more, and the discouragement from my (lack of) a stable NS job does nothing to help. First person? Third person? How can I survive this period, this hour, this day, this week? When I look within all I see is sheer, pessimistic darkness. It's driving me nuts. And if God is truly with me wherever I go, why do I so dread facing each new day and week?
I know I of all people, with so little to worry about, am not supposed to feel like this. But this is as honest a reflection as I can dash off--a need to get all this stuff off my chest, if you will. Let's just hope this darkness and dryness pass...
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment