Aside from the consistent battle with insomnia, I don't know if i've ever heard any writer talk about the constant feelings of guilt when they're not writing. I have a lot of things I love to do. Each takes me away from grinding out the meal stones of these stories. And I feel guilty about it, like I'm procrastinating, or that I'm too scared it'll never happen to actually get it done.
Both feelings are equally awful and completely counterproductive.
I told a friend today that I was ready to be done. I imagine this feeling is what labor feels like, maybe why successful authors parallel birth to novel. My hope is simple, that this means I'm on the right course. That I'm not wasting my time, energy, focus, and hope here on a stupid sci-fi rip off that no one will read.
I just don't still want to be here four years from now. I think I have two years tops. Two years to write this fucking book and see if anyone will buy it. At that point, I will need a career change regardless. I don't think I can teach past ten years. I'm struggling through year eight. I wonder if this is how Stephen King felt. If the book flops, fuck it. I'll go into some kind of consulting work. The money is better, I can travel. Maybe I can live.
I'm ready to feel like I'm actually living my life rather than sitting on the sidelines dreaming. I write a novel dreaming of the success it'll bring and the story it might tell. I play a car racing sim (Forza 7 with full wheel/peddles/clutch combo) because I dream of being fortunate enough to really make it a hobby in real life as opposed to the small dabbling and delusions of grandeur I see now. I take pictures of beautiful things, people that I'm not. I dream of chance moments of forgiveness and closure that will likely never happen. I dream of being noticed, of being worth knowing.
I dream of a better life.