The Importance of a Clear Head

I got another rejection letter the other day, but this one was (moderately) personalized, not just a form. Unfortunately, the message essentially said "This isn't what publishers are buying right now, sorry."

That really got to me. Actually, let me rephrase that: That is really getting to me, because it's a perfect articulation of the nagging doubts that have been lurking in the back corners of my skull. Though the word "unsellable" was never once said, my brain took that idea and ran with it, extrapolating on it. "This isn't what publishers are buying" turned into "this is unsellable" turned into "my writing isn't any good, nobody would ever pay for it."

It's left me hypercritical of my own writing, to the point where I feel physically ill when I even glance at a few words thrown together. "That's too sparse. That's too wordy. Who the hell thought those words should sit next to each other?" One of the benefits of being a writer is this: You are so connected to the words, to the language, that you automatically know when something sounds right and when something is... off. I have a pretty decent sense for this when I'm writing first drafts and editing them for second ones; I can tell when something works and when something doesn't.

But not now. Now, all that I see is a jumbled mishmash of broken sentences and incomplete thoughts, immature imagery, too many adverbs, and an incoherent storyline. I see any of my made up words and my stomach contracts, nausea courses through my body and I want to go do something else.

I haven't touched Seaquel in two weeks. I was going to get around to finishing Chapter Fourteen, but in the period between finishing Chapter Thirteen and starting Chapter Fourteen, I've gotten five rejection letters. It's enough to put a damper in anyone's ego and drive, and it's left me, as I've said, hypercritical.

I know it's all baloney when it boils down. I know this is all something in my head. Though I am quite often a keen judge of my own work, I've let this spate of rejection -- especially the last one -- get to me, get under my skin, to the point where I've lost my stuff. I'm sprawled on the floor next to my broken ego, and though it's still there, waiting to be put back together, I can't quite force myself to go forward with anything right now.

Once my head clears, everything will be fine.