Last night's post made me think a bit about how much writing I've been doing lately. Sadly, I don't think I'm up to par. I'm getting there, but I have a ways to go. About a month or two ago, I got a bad cold, and I can't write when I'm sick so I slacked off. Just as I was getting back into it, the flu came along and crippled me for a week. I barely left my bed in all that time. It still killed me for a second week, during which I got out of bed but did zero writing.
The week after that? Very little writing got done. I was lucky to get 100 words out a night. I fell into an awful depression where I tried to tell myself I didn't give a fuck anymore. Instead of trying to write, I'd read. Or watch TV. Or anything else but write.
It took me a while to get myself out of that funk. I had to remind myself that this writing thing is finally working out, and I'd be a fucking moron if I gave up now. Not only is my new book, POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS, coming out next month, but I also have another book coming out from Barbarian next year (it's a romance crime novel, if you can get your head around THAT) and a double book I'm doing with Spanking Pulp (it doesn't have a release date yet) will probably get out there soon. Not only that, but there are at least five anthologies coming out with stories by me in them. ALL OF THESE ARE PAYING GIGS. Some more paying than others, obviously, but it's SOMETHING.
That lit the fire under my ass again. Proud to say I've been hitting my 2,000-word minimum every night for two weeks (except Sundays). Sometimes, I even get more. Tonight? 2.5K.
I hate feeling like a fraud, but sometimes I deserve it because I am. I dared to call myself a writer when I was barely writing anything. That bothered me a great deal, and I'm glad to say I've put that garbage behind me.