Just Finish the Damn Book!

I normally pride myself on not caring what people think; especially when it comes to something I do creatively. I’ve weathered criticism before, the worst being when I published a small indie zine in Idaho. The entertainment editor for Boise’s largest daily newspaper went on and on about what a sellout, shitty rag the zine was. Did I mention that other than being a complete dick he was also egotistical, and basically stuck in Boise, because he couldn’t get a job writing for a bigger publication anywhere else. Anyways, like I said, I take criticism like a lady.

My worst critic is (be prepared for a shock) myself. I’ve been writing this damn book for nearly six months, yet lately when I want to do just a few more pages, a little voice in the back of my head begins telling me that instead of writing a compelling story, I’m penning mindless, romance novel drivel that will contribute nothing to society and make me a complete laughing stock. I wonder if George Orwell had this same problem.

I went to visit some of my former co-workers, all of which know about the book, and they greeted me with enthusiasm asking me when the book would be finished. Even my dad, who admits he is not exactly the most astute person, has asked me when I’m going to be finished with my book. Jeff regularly inquires about my progress, and sometimes I take it as general concern as opposed to more nagging, but again, I’m overcome with this sense of insecurity.

Worst case scenario: I could finish writing the book, and the only publisher interested would be Harlequin and my book would come out as a romance novel and be read by only a thousand people. Harlequin would pass on the option for a second book, and I would be relegated to dropping the other three books in the series or self-publishing.

Even worse case scenario: I could also end up getting turned down by Harlequin and have to completely self-publish which would be like taking a second job given the daunting task of marketing. After self-publishing and working myself ragged marking the hell out of my self-published work, I would only end up selling a small number of books to my friends and family, and figure out that it wasn’t worth self-publishing the rest of the series. I guess, in the end, it’s all a big gamble.

The best case scenario would be that I would get a nice publishing deal with a small, but influential publishing house that would call my book “cutting edge” and “emotionally real”. They would begin a successful grassroots marketing campaign that would lead to an assload of press and national recognition. My book would work to a best seller and I would end up on Oprah giving her little nibbles of information about the “much anticipated” second book in the series.

For years I worked in the music industry, and always admired the musicians I met, because even though some were famous enough to fill arenas while others drew a modest club audience, they got out there every night and played like they were on fire. If they had any self-doubt or moments of fighting off that voice in the back of their head, I never saw it on stage. I should take a queue from them, just finish the damn book, and put it out there.

It is an interesting story, after all. I mean, what woman in her lifetime hasn’t wanted a passionate romance with a rock star, or been in a situation where the relationship feels so good, but it’s bad for your life. I’ve re-worked the character slightly, because after reading through the first 100 pages, I thought she was beginning to come off like a bit of a whiny bitch. I want her to be struggling with choices, but I don’t want each decision to be a Vagisil moment.

In the end, I worry less about whether I’m good or if I suck, and more about just being mediocre. I don’t want to be one of the writers that are easy to pass by on the bookshelf. I want what I do to grab people and make them read the inner flap. I want people to read my work, and be honest about what they think. When I say I want to sell a million books, I’m less concerned about making money and more interested in having a million pairs of eyes examining my words with interest.

I guess the voice in my head comes from trying to compare myself with the writers I love, and constantly asking the question of whether my work is comparable to theirs. This I will never know, until some asshole who writes for a literary review tells me that my work is absolute drivel. For now, I should buck it up and finish the damn book. Who knows, I could be the next Margaret Atwood, Pearl S. Buck, or at least a less pathetic version of Janet Evanovich.