For those of you wondering, I haven’t died out here. Although last month it felt that way. I was in the dumps, wallowing in a quagmire of meh. Life in Afghanistan was depressing me, my lack of recent story sells bothered me and my work on the second book felt forced and lackluster. Even my lack of followers on this blog saddened me.
When it came to writing it wasn’t writer’s block so much as writer’s blah. Writing felt like a worthless endeavor and if I just let entropy take its course my obscure ass could sink miserably into complete obscurity and that would be ok. I was ready to throw in the towel.
Then I remembered my tagline. War stories of a writer in the trenches. It’s a constant series of battles for publication and mainstream acceptance and its a war that not only involves fighting it out with a million other stories in the slushpiles everywhere, but a war with yourself… your own self-doubt, self-loathing and despair. Those are the chemical weapons in this war, the neurological agents that tell you its easier to lay down your arms and let others fight it out.
I readjusted my helmet straps and shouldered my rifle. Time for new stories, new blog updates, an end to the second book. Because those neurological agents of self-doubt, self-loathing and despair are right: it would be easier to let others fight it out. But that’s not what I want, and I’m not content with just giving this thing a try. How about I give it my all, and while I’m at it write a trunk full of awesome?
Sure, the lows suck. But seriously, the victories wouldn’t be that sweet without them. I’ll take the lows to the sidelines any day of the week. So I spent the last couple days reading everything I’ve written in book two to where I am now, and I had to admit, it’s pretty damn sweet. And I looked at you guys, my followers, and realized you may be small in number but you’re hanging out cause you guys generally dig what I have to say. I can’t ask for more than that… thanks for hanging out with a brother.
I’m back, baby. I got a war to fight.