Depression and ink pens

When I get depressed I buy office supplies.  I don’t know why.  I just do.  A few minutes ago I purchased return address labels.

Will I use them?  Yes, probably.  Did I need them? Probably not.

I go back to work tonight so that means for the next seven days I will get little or no writing done.  The problem is the past seven days I had off, I got little to no writing done.  That’s what has me down.  Really its nothing new.  I often hit lows like this, I think a lot of writers do.  It’s that moment in time where you start to question yourself.

This week my son had the flu.  This week I had my birthday.  (I’m not saying which one.)  This week I was attacked by a thousand things left undone while I played doctor mom.  So when I finally got time to write I was so exhausted I couldn’t spell my own name let alone form coherent sentences.

I still haven’t heard from any of my beta readers.  As of last week none of them had found the time to start my book.  This leaves me in limbo with that particular novel.  Also my Scifi novel is almost ready to go to my betas but I can’t send it to them until they are finished with the Fantasy novel.  I am attempting to find a few new betas but my problem is that I don’t trust the opinions of my back-up betas as much as I trust my current crew.

I have one artist that asks just the right questions,  one sister-in-law who is a born editor, and one good friend who is also a writer.  They are the best beta readers I could ask for…when they don’t have other distractions or obligations.

Admittedly, I am impatient.  However, this is my brand new baby that I handed over to them. No one else has seen it yet.

My woe begone thoughts make question my writing ability.  I mean how awesome can I really be if my friends aren’t interested in reading my stuff?  I realize that life gets in the way, but part of me (the arrogant selfish part) thinks that my words should be so entertaining that people should drop everything and read my book right now.

Then the circular logic starts. If I can’t display the patience necessary does that mean I’m not really a good writer?  If I go a few days without writing does that mean I am not a writer?  Have I just deluded myself that I am good at this whole writing thing just because I want to be so badly?     It’s that dragon of self doubt raising its fanged maul again.

I am a writer. Why?  Because I don’t give up.

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