There are some things I feel I need to admit to you.
- I used to believe a first draft was a final draft. I applauded myself for the fact that I didn’t revise, that my writing was somehow instinctual or, and I shudder, visceral. I skated through workshops in college under this assumption and now I am so very ashamed. My books? You don’t even want to know how aggressively edited they are. I could edit them forever.
- I have no patience for epigraphs. I get why they are there but find them unbearably pretentious and always skip them when I’m reading. I’m the worst.
- I work so much better under a deadline. Or maybe it’s just easier to explain to my family why they really must leave me alone for weeks at a time when I can attach a number to my plea.
- I blame my excessive narration problems on the fact that I used to be super active in the journal-based RP community. Mostly Harry Potter. It was considered poor form to respond with just one sentence or two, and I know my habit of overthinking every word and gesture is a result of basically creating characters through dialogue exchanges. Also, I miss having the time for this desperately.
- I crave commercial success. I want to nerd out over readers and meet them at book signings and gush over fan art. I write because I can’t not write and it satisfies a deep, creative need in me to build worlds and breathe life into new characters. But I also dream of being a career author, however distant or unattainable that might be. I want to be taken seriously enough to engage with authors I admire as a peer. I’ve been to a few readings and signings within the last few years, both in front of the audience and in it, and I know where I prefer to be. It shouldn’t matter. But it does.
I told you I was the worst.