I think I'm in a slump. A horrible, stressful, don't-feel-like-writing-for-no-apparent-reason slump. And I need to get out fast.
Not only because my August firstlinefiction story is due in a little over two weeks, but because I don't especially like myself when I'm not writing. No, it's worse than that. I don't even feel like myself.
Finishing Going Bovine last night only contributed to my overall slumpiness. Not because it was a bad book, but because it was so completely wonderful that I felt my own talents shrivel in comparison.
I know I'm being stupid. I shouldn't be comparing myself to Libba Bray, or even to F. Scott Fitzgerald for that matter. I should be happy that I have something to bring to the table that is completely unique, and I should devote my energy to becoming a better writer, not to becoming a different writer.
Plus, in all fairness (even though this is kind of a skunky card to play), I am only 19. I'm young and I still have three more years of school left. I have time yet to morph and figure out how I'm going to approach this whole book-writing thing.
In the meantime...
While I wait for the tides to turn and the slump to slowly straighten out, I'll be sitting here on my bed. This Side of Paradise will be open in my hands, and I'll be thinking of things and not writing them down.
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