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Pet Me

Yesterday was a holiday, hooray for that, because it meant sleeping in. Boo for the fact that with three days off in a row, coupled with all that bad weather we had, plus other holidays, I find it hard to drag myself out of bed in the mornings. Coupled with this morning I just don't feel good about myself.

I call this my 'pet me' phase. You know, when you need confirmation that you're not a huge waste of space.
Leave me alone.
I'm a huge waste of
space. Ooo, apples.
A number of things have set this off. The first is I'm a little bit tired of the WIP I'm working on. It's similar, but not too much alike The Wrong Brother's Bride. There are plenty of differences, but sometimes it feels like I'm just rewriting what I've already done. So this thing is rapidly evolving into something else, which takes time away from actually getting it finished. Which is kind of a dumb way to think, because I've only been writing on it for a month. It's coming along better than I hoped, but not as fast as I'd like. My daily averages are anywhere from 1100 to 1800, which is pretty good, except on some novels, I can do 2000+ easily per day. So 1100 is kind of a low number when I expect more from myself.

I try to tell myself that perhaps I'm leaning toward burned out, but if I wasn't writing, I'd just be whinging about not writing or thinking about not writing or telling myself I wasn't really writing when in fact, I would be writing. It's not that.

It's...oh crap, this is hard to say, but *mutters* sometimes reviews get me. There, I said it. I crave your love insatiably. Just tell me I'm pretty and smart and I'll do anything you want. *sniff* I've heard that at some point in your life you're supposed to stop caring what other people think and just be yourself. Um...hello? Sense of not caring? Are you out there?

People are always, "Oh, you're so prolific." Sadly, this does not mean I'm actually good at any of the things I write. It mostly means I just write a lot about different things. Mostly I feel good writing about a lot of different things, because it's nice to change sub-genres up every now and then. Keeps one from getting too stale.

Then one of those-those reviews comes along and makes me question every.single.thing.I'm.doing. Reviews are not like constructive criticism. Constructive criticism is there to make a book better. Constructive criticism is easier to take, because I can do better. A review is there to damage your psyche tell others why they should or shouldn't buy this book. There is nothing, nothing, nothing that can be done to correct anyone's opinion of your book after it's written and published. Sometimes reviewers are just mean and say vague things because they're probably jealous of how great my hair looks in my author photo. Or they're 12. I'm looking at you person who wrote what sounded like a 12-year-old's opinion (your opinion doesn't even count, you're 12. And because I'm juvenile--I was 14 when I wrote that and it won an award and a teacher said it was so good it had to be plagiarized, but it wasn't, so you have two years to write something better.)

Often times, though, good reviewers will make points about things that bothered them in the book. I cringe when I see these points because sometimes I think, that's what you're picking on? This other thing should have bothered you more. Or because I'm thinking, #$@%&, you're right, that is awful. How did this get past me and an army of others?! 

And there is nothing you can do about it.

You won't change it,
even if I beg?
(This is a Nutria...
your guess is as good
as mine as to what
exactly a Nutria is.)
This is all I know:
When I was a kid, I made up stories to amuse myself. I have tried to get better. I cannot please everyone (today is not your day and tomorrow doesn't look good either). So I guess if you don't like what I wrote, I'm sorry. Deep down inside, I've always known I'm no Stephen King/James Patterson/Nora Roberts. I'm not the best writer who ever lived, there will never come a day when I get to quit my job and write (I'd never be able to focus on writing all day anyway), and I don't write stories for you.

I write them for me, because I think I'm good at it. Then I sell them to you in hopes that you'll like them. But I still really write them for me.


  1. Sorry you're down. But, you know what? I think you're a wonderful writer and story teller. I spit on that bad review.

  2. You're very smart. And very pretty. And yes, you write unbelievably fast, but you also write remarkably well. No book, no matter how good, is safe from bad reviews. (Feel free to remind me of that when it's my turn.) Are you purring yet?

  3. I hope it's just a case of winter blues. Maybe this weekend's slight warm up will help.


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