About the only one I’ll admit to being a drama queen, is myself and the blog. I’m not an out and out drama queen, I grew out of that pretty quickly after my teenage years. I even went through a martyr-syndrome phase, but getting out of the Navy and therapy cured that right up.
I understand myself better now.
I also know, that I still do both in my head. A lot. In my head I’m the victim, in my head the world is against me, blah blah blah self indulgent crap blah blah blah. Maybe it’s not the healthiest way of channeling those emotions, but it’s better than that 10 calorie Sprite commercial with that one chick crying and saying that she’s ‘really not that bad, guys, I’m not’.
And it’s all centred around my writing. It’s ALWAYS centred around my writing. I had such high hopes for Annie, was excited that she’s turning into this complex character, and was interested to see where she was going to go.
And then I had to go and fuck it up.
I’m not sure how I fucked it up, but I know I fucked it up. I tell myself I have to edit every day, I’ve got around 6 or so months to go before Annie comes out to the masses, and I can’t afford not to edit her. So, I sit down and I edit her. Is all of it good? Probably not, but I have this thing with word count, I push the chapters up to 5,000 words before I move on. I’m not entirely sure why I do this, but I do and it makes me feel better about the writing when I do. So I get to 5,000 words and I move on.
I don’t know what pushed me to do it last night, but I skipped right over to the ending and edited that with the ideas that I had worked out with my writing partner. I was excited for the idea, because it has some serious potential if I can work it right. If I just figure out how it’s all going to click together, I think I can make it work.
And then I read over it, and I realised how absolutely terrible it is.
(See? I told you.)
This is where my brain starts going into overdrive, I go all out and start berating myself hardcore.
The conversation in my head goes something like this:
Holy shit, are you kidding me? Why am I even bothering with this nonsense? No one is going to read this crap. Why would they want too? It doesn’t make any sense to me, why would it make any sense to anyone else. Do I think I’m clever? Do I think that by creating a war I’m gonna be the next George Martin? Because, let me tell you, there ain’t no way in hell that’s ever going to happen. Not with this. This crap is something that crawled out of the sewer, squatted on the page, and died. Okay? That’s what this is. How am I gonna pull off a twist and make it believable? At best, I’m the M.Night Shamylan of fucking writing. “What a twist”, that’s gonna be me right there, right on Robot Chicken when this shit crashes and burns in my face. No one is gonna want to read it. No one is going to buy the concept I’ve got going. Maybe I could pull a Neil Gaiman and beat them over the head with it, but then I’m just an asshole.
And it goes on and on. Because I have a perfection complex. I think we’ve talked about this before, I’m not sure. If we haven’t my complex goes something like this:
It has to be right the first time around or else.
Does it make sense? No. But complexes rarely do. Even if you know you have something wrong with the way you’re thinking, the complex is so overwhelming that it blots out rational thought and you have to satisfy that complex. OCD is the best example I can come up with. The complex I have is a lot like OCD. With writing and with art, if it’s not perfect, I suffer the consequences of the tirade in my head.
Can’t exactly cut off my head, now can I? It’d be kind of difficult. And I’m not about to find my own Doctor Kevorkian. Things ain’t that serious. And that’s why I hate being a drama queen, even if it’s just an internal dialogue.
Too bad I can’t be one of those people who uses the stability and simplicity of maths to get over my problems, right?
Thanks for listening.