A friend of The Famous Author asked to guest blog anonymously today. We said okay, as long as it wasn't about his new book.
There’s a numbness on my skin this morning, a sheet of self-pity thick and gooey between me and the world. I haven’t been anywhere and I’m not going anywhere. Everything’s finished before it began. Nothing anyone says can help. Nothing.
Of course I feel this way every morning at 4 a.m. I’m a writer. Half the day I put words on paper, the other half I seek people to read them. The competition is worse than fierce. It’s mind-scrambling. There are twenty-four million people writing fiction today in the English-speaking world alone. There’s another twenty-million in Scandanavia.
I think my agent represents half.
But coffee helps, so I make a 10-cup pot and watch it brew. There’s nothing else to do. My world cannot continue until I change this mood, trust me. But with one cup down, mixed with lots of special ingredients, and another coming, this old boy is beginning to feel the sun. It’ll be up in another half an hour, too.
Pretty soon I’m tweaking yesterday’s copy and working on the new scene, advancing my plot, hiding character and secrets inside the dialogue, smiling to myself with excitement when a “what if” moment blossoms into wonderful.
I’m a writer. And nothing anyone says can help. Nothing.