Wow, so I drafted the following in May of 2014 and never posted it. Well, here it is January of 2015 and I finished the book I was angsting about and am now in this exact same place with the next book. In a way, I find this comforting. In another way, I find it horrifying. Will this crippling self-doubt ever stop? It really sucks.
From the unposted draft archives:
Despite the fact that I’ve got four or five books out now, whenever I’m working on a new one, I always reach a point where the following thoughts go through my head:
“What the eff are you doing? Who do you think you are? You can’t write a book. You’re not even capable of writing a book. You don’t know what you’re doing and you will never know what you’re doing.”
That’s the worst part of writing. It’s the part that really gets me down sometimes.
For some reason, though, I keep on writing. I’m pretty sure it’s because I have to write to survive. So write I do. Hopefully I’ll be wrong and a book will come out of what I do. Still, that nasty little voice is there. Despite evidence to the contrary, there’s always part of me that thinks I can’t.
But I can.
And I will.
I DID. Here’s Smoky Mountain Dreams, the book I was certain I couldn’t write.
Smoky Mountain Dreams is available now at:
And now at KOBO.