‘Maybe this isn’t for me’

I had a moment of real weakness last week, when I wondered whether my desired career as a fiction writer was just a bit out of my grasp.

I’ve been struggling as of late to put pen to paper (or, more literally, sit down with my manuscripts) and really delve in and work on my works in progress. There’s always a good excuse: I don’t have time to really dive into it. I only have a few quick minutes before I have to pick up the kids/start dinner/commence other random task. If I start now, I won’t want to quit to go to bed in an hour. The list is lengthy and convincing. So I’ve been ignoring the fiction voices in my head.

To my credit, I’ve been crazy productive in other areas of my life. Three freelance stories that I have due Friday might actually make it to their respective editors on deadline. I’ve been running three times per week and racking up some serious mileage for the first time in ages. The paychecks are rolling in from my on-the-side copy editing job, and Operation Clean Office has passed preliminary inspection with flying colors.

Kids and husband are happy. I’m sleeping well at night. This whole fiction-writing thingy … maybe? Maybe it’s … just not for me? The three agents who have my full MS have been extremely uncommunicative, and I find it harder and harder each day to find the time and creativity to want to dig bones-deep into either of my two new, slowly puttering-along novels.

My moments of self doubt, as always, are hard to swallow. But if that’s the only area of life that’s tripping me up at the moment … could it possibly be, simply, not meant to be?

I went to bed with these thoughts on my mind. Could I really live the rest of my life without living out this dream of publishing a novel? It made for an unrestful night.

Shortly before my alarm jolted me back to the real world, my brain slipped into a dream in which my (yes, dream) agent emailed me with an offer of representation for SETH. Even though I was sleeping, I can still visualize her words on the computer screen and recall the excitement I felt. My heart was racing even as my alarm clock jolted me back to reality — one in which I do not have an agent, nor an offer of representation — and I can’t remember a morning in which I rose from bed feeling so disappointed and dejected at the simple act of being awake.

It was in those sad moments that I realized I cannot now — nor, possibly, ever — give up on my dream of publishing a book. My subconscious knows I cannot be, nor will I ever be, truly fulfilled unless I see my name on the cover of my novel — my words on the pages in the bookstore.

Maybe this whole fiction gig isn’t for me. Regardless, I’m going to see it through. Or damn if I’m going to die trying….