I got three solid slams against my writing, today, and went into a funk that messed with my ability to do anything. One was from a reviewer who wanted to give me a positive review on The Vanishing of Owen Taylor...but only if I paid for it. Didn't she like it enough to do it for real? That back and forth did not go well, so if I get a one-star on Amazon, I'll know why. The other was from BookLife, which passed over reviewing OT; "not up to their standards." Then another family member said she wouldn't finish reading The Alice '65 because she just didn't like it.
I don't have enough ego to know for a fact that my work is great and wonderful and needs to be read or seen. I love the praise but what digs into my soul is the criticism. Meaning, still too much artist's sensitivity in me and still too much awareness of my limitations, so crap like this gets to me. Always has. I mean, like my work but I consistently see where it can be improved and know I can not notice inconsistencies and contradictions, sometimes.
However, once upon a time I'd be in this funk for weeks. Today? I'm already past it. I am strong enough to see that not everything is for everyone, and that sometimes people try to take advantage of you by preying on what they perceive to be your weaknesses. So instead of 10 days frozen in place, I spent an hour and a half. Now I'm listening to KCRW's Metropolis and plotting out the novelization of Darian's Point.
After work, tomorrow, I'm getting back to A65 and inputting my changes. I didn't get back to Buffalo till 3pm, then had to drop off what I picked up, which took till after 4, and return the rental...and I was beat, by that point. Which may be why I spent so long in stasis.
Anyway, fuck 'em all. If you don't like my work, you don't like my work. I won't die from it, nor will I let it stop me. I have stories to tell, and some people will like them. That's all that matters.
But God, it makes me tired.
I don't have enough ego to know for a fact that my work is great and wonderful and needs to be read or seen. I love the praise but what digs into my soul is the criticism. Meaning, still too much artist's sensitivity in me and still too much awareness of my limitations, so crap like this gets to me. Always has. I mean, like my work but I consistently see where it can be improved and know I can not notice inconsistencies and contradictions, sometimes.
However, once upon a time I'd be in this funk for weeks. Today? I'm already past it. I am strong enough to see that not everything is for everyone, and that sometimes people try to take advantage of you by preying on what they perceive to be your weaknesses. So instead of 10 days frozen in place, I spent an hour and a half. Now I'm listening to KCRW's Metropolis and plotting out the novelization of Darian's Point.
After work, tomorrow, I'm getting back to A65 and inputting my changes. I didn't get back to Buffalo till 3pm, then had to drop off what I picked up, which took till after 4, and return the rental...and I was beat, by that point. Which may be why I spent so long in stasis.
Anyway, fuck 'em all. If you don't like my work, you don't like my work. I won't die from it, nor will I let it stop me. I have stories to tell, and some people will like them. That's all that matters.
But God, it makes me tired.
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