Feelings

•Shyness.
I attended a “launch” for the local SpecFic magazine BullSpec last night. Great fun, ran into several local authors (some aspiring, some very successful) and chatted with a couple I’d met before.
Only it’s really odd how tongue-tied I get around other writers. I feel much the way I did 20 years ago when that happened, as if they’re the “real” writers and I’m just a wannabe.
Which is bull, of course. I’ve put in 10 years as a journalist, I’m paying my share of the bills freelancing, I have my Applied Science series and multiple other short-story sales, plus the three film books and articles in Newsweek and Boys’ Life. Yet somehow, I can’t quite seem to mention any of that.
I think part of it isn’t so much shy as feeling like I’m bragging. Even though I have a fair amount to brag about, it’s not natural: I’m much more comfortable walking the walk (so to speak) rather than talking the talk.
And let’s face it, self-promotion couldn’t hurt (given that I have, after all, enough talent to be worth promoting). I’ll see if I do better next time.
•Regret.
I’ve often kicked myself for not doing more when I was in my twenties. I slacked off a lot when I could have been writing (contrary to the cliche, I really wish I had spent more time at the office), and not because I was doing something so wildly fun—I just couldn’t get started some days, or I’d drift off and idly watch TV or I’d just writers-block myself for a week or two (my automatic response whenever I tried overloading myself on work).
But I did more than I give myself credit for. I finished two novels, got partway through a third, wrote a bunch of short stories and kept submitting them; one wall of my room and both sides of the door was completely papered with rejection slips (my symbol of what I was working to overcome). And I guess all that writing helped me train and improve as I went.
Maybe I should give myself at least a few props for all that work, after all.
•Tension.
There’s a particular kind of writer’s block where I just freeze up completely, tense whenever I start to think about working on the story. The reason is simple: I’m doing it wrong. Something, even if I don’t know what it is, is screwed up and because I’m building on that screwed-up premise, the wrongness is growing. So my subconscious reaches up and grabs me by the brain.
I had that problem this week with Applied Science #7 (I’m still grappling with the title). Actually I’ve had it for a while. It was only today that I finally figured out how to fix it (instead of making one character a sweet innocent, he’s a crazy troublemaker).
I have never had this feeling steer me wrong. And that’s a very good thing.