Sandra Scoppettone has written 18 novels. She must, on some level, love to write. But it seems like doing it for her is agony.
I feel like throwing the manuscript into the water and deleting all
copies on my computer and back ups. I know I won’t. But I wonder how
much of my discouragement is laced with my bookstore blues.
I’m on page 178 and I feel I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going
or who these people are. My closest friend just told me she wishes she
had a tape to playback to me because I always say these things.
But this time it’s real.
It’s always real. And she doesn’t need a tape playback — all she has to do is look back at her blog, where she left virtually the same post about her last book. She’s been successful, critically and financially, as a writer. A couple of her books were even made into movies. So she’s had plenty of validation over the years that she’s really good at what she does. But it’s not enough. It never is.
But what this post proves is that no matter how long you do this, or how successful you are, this job never gets any easier. I’m not sure what’s harder — the writing itself or overcoming your insecurities about your writing.
I know how Sandra feels, though not quite to her angst-ridden extreme. I love to write, I need to write, and even when I am in creative hell (which is often), I am usually enjoying myself more than I am suffering… otherwise, why would I keep doing this?
UPDATE 11/10/2006: Sandra elaborates on her feelings about writing.